


Wicked Heart

by kayabiter, Valerin Berenghar (Valerin)



Series: Man of Worth [1]
Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Angst, Bigotry & Prejudice, Blood, Blood and Gore, Bullying, CARDEN RAISED NO QUITTER, Canon-Typical Violence, Complicated Relationships, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Decapitation, Fairy Tale Elements, Falling In Love, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Injury, Internalized Homophobia, Language Barrier, M/M, Magic, Mental Health Issues, Mercy Killing, Murder, Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Past Rape/Non-con, Poisoning, Possessive Behavior, Religion, Requited Unrequited Love, Scars, Scent Kink, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Spells & Enchantments, Swearing, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:53:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 88,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26684725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayabiter/pseuds/kayabiter, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valerin/pseuds/Valerin%20Berenghar
Summary: Now, more than ever, Lancelot needed something to believe in. The Feys’ rancour hindered his quest for redemption on every step, but he still held on to the burning need to make things right; to find a higher purpose.As he watched the Green Knight assume the mantle of the rebellion leader, Lancelot thought that this time he could choose the light that would warm his soul up, instead of burning it to ashes.And while no one said it would be easy, Lancelot had always thrived on challenge.
Relationships: Gawain | The Green Knight/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Series: Man of Worth [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1941790
Comments: 336
Kudos: 255





	1. Prologue: Wicked Ways

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to SuperLizard for beta reading.

The dirt was cold and wet against his cheek. He blinked once—twice, but the world was still horribly tilted; ground and sky rocking back and forth sickeningly. His throat ached as he swallowed dryly, coming to taste blood and sand and— 

“—no no no – no, get up!” The desperation in Percival’s voice pierced through, but it sounded distant—like he was shouting from miles away and perhaps that was for the better, that the boy took Goliath and rode off. 

All at once, the ground quaked and mud splattered up his face, hitting him straight in the eye. He jerked to roll away, but the gashes on his back and chest flared up with stinging pain, dragging a groan past his cracked lips and he stilled, twisted awkwardly on his side. All over his body, the pain was coming back like a wind picking up strength. It was hard to tell what hurt the most; the gaping hunger that gnawed away at his insides, or the splitting headache that with each pulse stirred up the burning taste of bile in his throat, or the angry, unforgiving pinch in his chest as he fought for air. 

“Get up!” Percival’s tiny hands fisted his tunic and tugged, putting pressure on all the cloak straps and— 

— _fucking hell_ —

—black ate the corners of his vision. He didn’t realise he was screaming until the pressure relented, body easing back down into the mud; it was soaking into his cloak, past his surcoat, chilling him down to the bone. He let out a shaky breath, vision slowly expanding once more. All that he saw was Percival’s worried face, eyes gleaming and wide with distress.

“You have to get up!” Percival shook him lightly – barely hard enough to make him rock, but it hurt all the same. He squeezed his eyes shut as he breathed hard through his nose, realising that the rattling noise he heard came from himself; that he was shaking worse than a newborn colt.

Percival deflated next to him, shoulders dropping low as he sat down on the ground. “You bloody idiot, just get up,” he begged. 

Deep down, he knew that the boy was just as exhausted as he was. He couldn’t tell for how long they’d been riding, but even Goliath looked weathered to the bone; dark head hanging low, and flanks rising and falling in that slow, agonising pace. 

In the distance, thunder rumbled. Lancelot felt how Percival shifted closer, hands renewing its grip and he watched how the boy glanced around anxiously; the world was still rocking back and forth as if he was on a boat at sea, but that didn’t make the dark sky any less ominous.

“Lancelot–Lancelot, do you even hear me?” Fear laced the boy’s words, and it yanked viciously on that knot inside Lancelot’s chest; his tongue was a lead weight in his mouth, and the only sound he managed to voice was a low, raspy groan. 

“You have to get up, I don’t know where we are– _please_.”

When the thunder roared again, closer this time, Percival shifted even nearer, leaning over his shoulders in a tight embrace. He managed to wrap an arm over him, gently stroking his hand over the boy’s back. He wanted to tell the boy to leave—that Goliath could easily take him an hour or two more with just one rider on his back, but it was as if the fall had knocked the words right out of him. 

The stillness around them only heightened every emotion–every feeling; even the wind seemed to have made itself scarce and for the longest while, he listened to Percival’s shaky breathing. A long time ago, someone had once told him that rough goodbyes always meant sweet reunions – only that he’d lived long enough to know that it didn’t apply to farewells.

And this was farewell. He hadn’t picked up arms against the Trinity Guard for the boy to die somewhere like this; on an old forgotten road, far away from everything that made life worth living for. A sinking sense of finality came with that thought that he would die alone and that made it even harder to find the words needed to send the boy on his merry way. His throat ached vividly as he swallowed down once more, mustering up the strength to speak and— 

—a faint rustle reached his ears. In the next moment, a dark bird landed softly not more than an arm’s length away from them. A raven, he realised and blinked again; when he could unglue the bloodied eyelashes, the bird was still there. It tilted its head and looked at him in that curious way all birds did – expectantly almost.

For all his numbness, a deep primal fear unfurled itself in his stomach. He felt the stretch of the wound on his eyebrow pull and sting as he blinked, fully expecting the raven to be gone when he opened his eyes, but it stood as if rooted to the ground. 

Ravens rarely came for nothing, and every breath he took was wheezing and shallow, too shallow to sustain him for long. It was like peering over the edge of a cliff; dread, fear and regret clawed inside him all at once. He was going headfirst into that darkness below with all his sins and transgressions, and there was nothing he could do to change that. It was a damning realisation; that this would be how it all ended before it even had a chance to truly begin. 

He swallowed, tasting hot blood and feeling more of it soak the fabric of his collar; one of the flails had struck him hard on the collarbone and he supposed that wound had come open in the fall, much like everything else. The raven opened its beak, tiny tongue flickering in the air and his heart sank anew. Regret twisted like a knife in his stomach at having to break his promise to the boy; the one he’d made in the heat of things – that he would see the boy safe and sound back where he belonged, but it’d been a foolish undertaking. Father had always blamed him for his fiery heart and now he supposed the old man was right; that he’d end up breaking more promises that he could keep. 

But then something shifted in the shadows behind the bird. On the fine line between the shrubbery closest to the road and where the trees stretched tall, there was _something_ stalking in the greenery. He blinked once, twice—thrice, almost hearing the squish sound of each blink as he sluggishly tried to focus on the blurry shape. It wasn’t an animal – it was tall and slender, like a human and he absently thought that was odd. They were deep into the forest, the road beneath them wasn’t even paved by men and it couldn’t be a hunter – unless it was Fey kind they planned to prey on. 

His heart hammered in his chest and whereas the fight had previously bled him dry, he suddenly became desperate to warn the boy; mind awakening at the snapping jaws of fear. He tried to speak but his lips barely opened, parched and caked with blood, and not a sound came out. The blur shifted closer and when the vague outline shaped into a man with a sword, he tapped his hand fervently against the boy’s back – anything to make the boy notice. He tried to speak again, not taking his eyes off the threat, and this time a small groan escaped his throat.

The boy perked up and pulled away, hand coming up to stubbornly wipe away the wet trails on his cheeks. Percival frowned in confusion, lips parting to speak but Lancelot managed to jerk his chin in the direction of the armed man. The boy twisted around, took one look at whoever it was and in the next, he reached for the sword still strapped to Lancelot’s belt. 

Lancelot reached for the hilt quicker than his mangled body could afford, but it was still too slow. The gleam of the ruined blade almost winked at him as Percival pulled the sword from the scabbard and shot off the ground, already leaping toward their pursuer. _Reckless idiot,_ he thought as his heart was beating out of his chest with such frenzy that he desperately tried to move, anything to stop the boy from getting killed. 

Why—why the hell did this _stupid_ child keep believing that he could take on a grown man?

Before he could will his body to move, he watched how Percival charged the pursuer, sword raised high above his head in the most unbalanced manner. 

But then he stopped. Instead of bringing down the sword as if aiming to cleave his opponent in half, Percival froze as if time seized to exist. Lancelot didn’t even blink; quick, shallow gasps rattling in his chest. He watched how Percival slowly lowered the sword before he dropped it all together; it fell with a low thud into the grass. 

The boy threw himself at the pursuer with all his might, arms wrapping around the man’s midriff all while swearing and sniffling. Between the ringing in his ears and the frantic beat of his heart, he couldn’t make out their words but they were talking—quickly, desperately and the man didn’t draw steel nor did he shove the boy away which could only mean one thing. It was someone the boy knew—it had to be, and the relief washed over Lancelot like a tidal wave. A voice at the back of his mind reminded him that it would be his end; not that it mattered.

 _Percival would be safe now_ , he thought as his eyes slipped close; whatever fume of a fighting spirit that’d appeared at the sight of the shadow vanished. A distant part of him would’ve preferred to face his death standing, with a sword in hand – a dignified end to an undignified life, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. 

He heard the raven crow. After that, there was the creak of boots and the grating of pebbles. The chill that spread through his body was lulling, dragging him under and there wasn’t an ounce of strength left to open his eyes. It was as if he grew heavier and lighter all at once, and the darkness hushed his tattered thoughts.

The steps paused next to him, final stride kicking up mud on his hands. He heard the rustle of fabric, as the man knelt next to him, and then, at the gust of a wind, Lancelot caught the smell of sage and cloves. 

His heart skipped a beat because it was _impossible_. For a petrified moment, he feared that the shadows of his guilt had manifested itself into a wraith, but as he desperately tried to recall a prayer, the words escaped him. 

Too stubborn to die without an answer, he willed his eyes open to half-mast. As the blot that loomed before him sharpened, Lancelot saw the green eyes stare down at him, and his heart faltered. 

“Come on, Ashman, don’t you die on him now,” the man said, “we are almost there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter should hopefully pop up in the coming weeks :)


	2. We Need Him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (a couple of months later)

_A few months later – end of August_

War reaped no winners. One could count the lives lost, the damages sustained, the assets spent over a map and a goblet of wine, but it was nothing compared to standing in the midst of the aftermath. If victory smelled like anything at all, it was the smell that festered inside the inn where the healers had set up shop – a thick, suffocating cloud that one couldn’t air out, no matter the effort. 

One window stood ajar, the narrow slit barely helping as the wind blew stubbornly in the wrong direction, but it was better than nothing at all. From where Lancelot stood, he had an unobstructed view of the inn and the calamity that reigned within its timber walls; he glanced around, wilfully ignoring the way his stomach lurched at the stench of stale blood and sickly sweat. Tugging at his sleeves, he wondered briefly if he could get away with covering his nose, but decided against it, resorting to breathing through the mouth as covertly as he could. It was either that, or a mad dash out into the pouring rain.

The wounded – a dozen, at least – were propped up against the walls, and more still sat slumped on the floor in a narrow circle close to the hearth that didn’t lend enough warmth as three measly logs, glowing angrily, slowly burned out. The log rack stood empty beside the fireplace. It was further evidence of how little rest the healers had been given since the last skirmish with the Ice King’s scouting troops. At least they had managed to get everyone far from the frontlines and to the lakeside town where Fey hoped to entrench for the winter, waiting out the bloody quarrel between the larger players – or so the Green Knight had told him.

Not more than a stone’s throw away, Gawain stood by one of the tables at the centre of the room and nodded, again and again, as he talked to the Faun woman who was in charge of the healers. It was as if the severe frown was etched onto her dour face, and Lancelot could imagine that she let the knight know just how _vital_ it was that they found the herbs needed.

With so many wounded the healers had been run off their feet and it was only a question of time before they would run out of ingredients for the remedies. With only Polly, Pym and two more Fey, they couldn’t spare a pair of hands; thus, Gawain had volunteered to take a group of fighters into the forest to search for the plants needed. The handpicking process had been a dull affair until the knight had pointed at him as the last man to join the assembly and all at once, the silence had turned heavy enough to smother the whole room. Once the shock had eased, the half-hearted protest, the sneers, the pointing had started, and the sole thing that had quieted the complaints was the argument that the Ashman’s keen sense of smell was an advantage they couldn't ignore. 

The door at the back – the one leading to the kitchen – swung open with a bang, drawing everyone’s attention. 

Lancelot stood straighter, weight shifting from one foot to the other as he watched Pym march out carrying a steaming pot that, by the blissful lack of smell, could only be water. The moment she saw Gawain, it seemed to take the weight off her shoulders.

“You’re here!” she exclaimed.

The Green Knight lit up like a beacon, a smile reaching all the way to his eyes. The head healer scoffed, but seemed to realise making him repeat the list the third time was a losing game and instead turned to Pym, taking the pot from her hands. At the sight of the apprentice’s pleading eyes she relented, allowing her a short break to catch up with the Knight. 

“Oh, but you aren't leaving already, are you?"

“Soon,” Gawain said as Pym wiped her hands on her apron; it matched her hair – it was red and brown all over, not a speck of unsoiled fabric in sight. Her fiery locks were a bird nest and even though there was a smile on her lips, she still looked weathered to the bone. 

“Polly told you what we need?” she began with an inquisitive tilt to her head. “Sage, lady’s mantle, feverfew...” 

“... yarrow and elder,” Gawain finished for her with a long-suffering smile. “Stop fretting, it is not my first foray. We will be back before you notice.”

“Stop boasting and stay safe out there,” Pym said, arms opening wide to hug him. She had to stand on her tiptoes for that, and in spite of their morose situation, a small smile tugged at the corner of Gawain’s mouth. “I’ve heard you are taking the Monk along, is that true?” 

Their eyes locked from where she peeked over the knight’s shoulder mid-hug and just like that, a ripple of change crossed her features. She pulled away quickly, detangling herself from Gawain’s arms before taking a small step back. 

“Oh, there he is,” Pym muttered, obviously taken a bit off guard if her strained appearance was anything to go by. She wrung her hands, glancing with wide eyes between Lancelot and Gawain. It was enough to make Lancelot look away; he pretended to be deeply engrossed in a bundle of the wild garlic hanging from one of the wooden roof beams. 

Gawain cleared his throat. “I am taking him with us, yes.”

“Of course—not like you can shake the shadow off, anyway,” Pym muttered and shot another look at Lancelot, “but since you're leaving – I’m going to go, before Polly skins me alive,” she finished, turning on her heel and walked briskly away, looking for all the world as if she was fleeing.

In the corner of his eye, he saw how Gawain scrubbed a hand over his face. “Are you done glaring the garlic into submission, Ashman?” 

Lancelot offered a curt nod, eyes already darting toward the door. Gawain patted him on the shoulder and he caught a glance of that crooked smile that rested on the knight’s lips. The moment the hinges of the door creaked open and allowed that fresh air inside, the sound of rain magnified into a loud murmur. It was coming down in sheets and even though he had spent more nights beneath the starry sky than in a bed, the prospect of doing so in such weather was disheartening. 

Lancelot pulled up the hood with a bracing sigh before he ducked out into the downpour after Gawain, both hurrying over the town’s square to the stables. Even though it wasn’t more than a hundred feet at best, the sprint still left their cloaks dotted dark. The moment they sat a foot over the threshold, they almost collided with the line of men and mounts that crowded the stable aisle.

Gawain wiped off the rainwater from his face as he nodded toward the men. “Fellas.” 

“Took you two long enough,” said a Fey, the one who stood by a dappled bay. Lancelot remembered him from when Gawain had picked out the search party – Melle was his name, a Moonwing scout, except that he didn’t have any wings left. 

“It was a long list,” Gawain shot back with the same crooked smile he had at the tavern.

Lancelot glanced over the motley group – it was just the five of them, not counting himself and Gawain, and two of the scavengers were barely older than Percival. He’d probably heard their names, but Fey faces still looked so similar to him – and to make matters even worse, two scouts were twins. Even the clothes they donned were indistinguishable. 

_That one, was he Thaid or_ _Faílbe?_

He looked away when they both glared back at him in unison. It didn’t matter, they were barely important enough to warrant knowing their names. Perhaps it was the Feys’ detest for him that made everyone look alike. At the very least, it was the same set of eyes on everyone – the same kind of old hatred that burned behind. 

Even though he loomed behind Gawain much like the shadow Pym had said he was, Lancelot could feel the weight of the collective stare from the group. It was hard to tell what was worse: that they openly expressed their disdain, or that they bottled it all up. The latter made them less predictable, forced him to be more watchful in their company – it was surprising that no one had tried to plunge a knife into his back yet. Then again, Lancelot guessed that it was a feat of his wardens more than the discipline of ordinary men.

“You still sure about bringing that bloodhound along, Gawain?” Melle asked, disdain clear on his face and chin jutted high. “We aren’t exactly going to sniff out scared children.”

Lancelot watched how Gawain’s shoulders heaved with a heavy sigh. “We need him,” he said, and for a flickering moment, Lancelot wished they didn’t.

“We all know what herbs look like,” Melle muttered. 

“You know how to find them by scent alone as well?” Gawain shot back, voice bleeding with fatigue at the Moonwing’s stubbornness. His remark zapped the air into something less comfortable. 

Realising it was high time to make himself scarce, Lancelot brushed past Gawain and headed down the long row of stalls, past the seemingly endless line that made up the scavenger party, purposely keeping his gaze low. The last couple of months had been an uphill battle and it’d taught him that with Fey a single look could be the spark that ignited a fight. The last thing he wanted was to make things even more difficult for Gawain.

Only when he got close to Goliath’s stall did he lift his gaze, but found that the black horse wasn’t the only one staring at him. The faun lingering at the back met his eyes and judging from the string of bird skulls on his belt, this must be Bate. Lancelot had heard Gawain mention there was a story behind that belt.

“Woof—woof, dog,” the faun snickered.

The words stopped Lancelot dead in his tracks, humiliation making his heart pound hard. He clenched his jaw shut and glanced back at the barn doors, at the end of the aisle where Gawain was busy talking to Melle. 

“Going to go and roll on your back for the Green Knight, eh?” Bate continued in the same mocking tone, yanking Lancelot’s attention back. 

_Piss off,_ he thought as he bared his teeth silently. Bate’s wicked smile fell in a blink, face resetting itself into something that could be wariness—could be anger, but it didn’t matter, because the result was the same. The faun scoffed as he broke away first, tugging harshly on the reins of his mount before leading it out of the stables. 

It was borderline infuriating how little respect they had for him. He was used to people talking about him as he was standing mute, but the Fey were even worse than the Red Brothers when it came to that. In the beginning, they’d ignored him completely save for insults, but the need for his skills slowly made them approach him more.

A couple of months among the Fey and it’d dismantled the fear around him; made them feel safer. Perhaps they thought him tame since he hadn’t snapped once – not even as the insults had been hauled alongside the occasional rotten apple and stone. 

It hadn’t been an easy feat, but at least he’d been let out of the shackles, and then fewer and fewer wardens had been assigned to keep him under careful watch. Still, the rule of always having one guard around remained; though as of late, it was mostly Gawain or Kaze who kept an eye on him. They were the most competent warriors and the only ones who tolerated his presence without protest. As a result, Lancelot couldn’t dictate over his days freely, but that was nothing new. Just like Father, they’d ordered him to tag along so that they could do their thing all while ensuring that he didn’t do anything stupid. 

It was mostly the itch of inaction – the one that allowed the dark thoughts to take root in his mind whenever Gawain or Percival were not there to distract him – that frustrated him. He still wasn’t allowed to follow the knights to strategic meetings and had to wait outside, a forlorn shadow that the passing Fey all had given a wide berth. There were moments he figured he could sneak off without anyone noticing; where he could steal some provisions from the kitchen, saddle Goliath after all the stable boys were gone and just disappear into the night. 

But leaving and taking his chances in the wilderness would mean being truly lost and that distressed him more than some sneers. Nearly dying in some ditch with not even a chance of proper burial would do that to a man. He didn’t remember being brought into the town – hell, he still wouldn’t be able to point out the town on a map as no one was willing to divulge the town’s name to him. Besides, Gawain and Percival had compelled him to make the promise that he would stay, and he’d broken enough of those already to pause before going back on this one as well.

Still, the feeling of being suspended in time instilled the belief that he was just stalling for the inevitable. This uncertain threat crawled under his skin and he couldn’t even shake it off with a good fight because they still didn’t allow him to carry any weapons; another thing that only rendered him feeling useless and off-balance, used to the solid weight of steel at his hip. His days were filled with simple chores – those that didn’t require too much exertion as the wounds sustained from the Trinity Guard still bothered him months down the line; the headaches were the worst of it all. 

Most days it was hard to tell if it was the nauseating smell from the sick that made his headache flare as he’d helped out with preparing ingredients and emptying piss pots wherever the healers had been camped out. He wondered if it had been Gawain’s decision to post him with the healers after he’d made his recovery, but he’d never gotten around to ask. Throughout all the hours he’d spent scrubbing soiled bedding and boiling ruined bandages the last couple of weeks, he’d convinced himself that the Fey saw it as fitting atonement; to care for those he’d once sliced open with the swing of a sword. Inwardly, he disagreed with their strategy – he was much better at ending lives than saving them. 

A distant, ever-vigilant part of him became aware of how Gawain passed Gringolet’s reins to Melle at the end of the aisle. He blinked out of his stupor, only to realise that it was too late to merely pretend it didn’t happen because Gawain was already walking toward him, frown etched deep with concern.

In a poor, half-assed attempt to avoid the burning intent in Gawain’s eyes, Lancelot averted his gaze and reached for the clasp of the stall door. Before he could slip inside to where Goliath stood saddled and ready, Gawain was in his space—grabbing him by the arm.

“Something wrong?” 

“No,” Lancelot deflected as he pulled himself free. He headed into the stall all while being acutely aware of Gawain’s eyes on him and it felt as if the man was staring him right through. As he adjusted the cheek piece on Goliath’s bridle, he couldn’t help but think that he’d never met a leader like the Green Knight; one who didn’t command using an iron fist or instill obedience through fear. 

Just like Father, Gawain knew everyone around the camp by name. Unlike Father though, the Fey commander allowed his warriors to question his reasoning – even encouraged them to speak up so that they could lower the chances of something being overlooked. It was such a foreign concept for Lancelot – though, to be fair, Gawain’s tolerance only extended to the other Fey. With Manblood, he was quick to make clear how little their opinion mattered.

Despite his exasperated jests, Gawain was genuinely concerned with everyone – even the Ashman. He’d saved him from that bloody forest, after all, and made sure the Fey did not finish the Trinity Guard’s work. Now Lancelot supposed that he wanted to make sure that their bloodhound wouldn’t forget the hand that fed him during the journey that laid ahead. 

It was a bitter thought and the one Gawain didn’t deserve, but Lancelot had heard Arthur mumble that it was a risk to bring him along when the team had been picked, that he should stay in the camp; for once, he agreed with the Manblood. They would likely watch him even closer once they left the town. At least within its walls he’d started to gain some freedom. 

When he led Goliath out of the stall, Gawain planted a hand right over his solar plexus, stopping him again. It still felt strange to be touched so often, but when it was him or Percival, it was tolerable. 

“Just Bate being his charming self?” Gawain asked, eyes narrowing. 

Lancelot breathed in through his nose, shoulders heaving. He shot Gawain a pointed look, merely raising his eyebrows once in reply before pushing past. Between the hum of activity in the stable and the click of Goliath’s hooves as he led him along, no one heard him mumble _woof-woof_ under his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter should be up within a week :)


	3. A Wolf...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two new tags have been added with this chapter – spare the tag list a second glance.

The first stretch of their foray was filled with patchy rain and northern winds, the harbingers of cold arriving early this year. Lancelot knew there would still be warmer days ahead of them with the summer of ferns coming up, but for now, the dreary mizzle had set in. Only when they ventured deeper into the forest did the red crowns of autumn capture most of it, but a day in the saddle had left everyone damp and chilled to the bone, waxed cloaks or not. Once the dark clouds hid the already setting sun, it became too dark for horses to walk safely, and the group decided to dismount and break camp. 

Bate volunteered to hunt with loud laments about how he needed to stretch his legs to feel his ass again. Though he wasn’t going to put it quite so eloquently, Lancelot could relate – and after glancing at Gawain and seeing the man nod, he trailed along with the faun. The two men didn’t talk as they hunted – not even on the way back, each with a rabbit carcass hanging from their hands. At least the scavengers’ mood brightened once they appeared out of the thickening shadows and presented their catch.

Soon the warriors huddled around the merrily crackling fire, watching with hungry eyes as the stew puttered. After what felt like ages, Gawain finally lifted a wooden spoon to his lips for a taste – paused, smirking slightly – and gave them a nod. The Fey rushed over in a blink, almost falling over themselves and elbowing each other in the ribs in their hurry to grab the tastiest morsels. Laughing, Gawain filled his bowl after the others and perched upon a fallen log, eyes first flitting to the shadows that swayed around the camp and then settling on his people. 

Shortly after they’d set out, Lancelot had asked whether he should look for the plants as they rode through the lands, but Gawain had shaken his head – apparently, the herbs they needed only grew further into the woods. If Lancelot would have to guess, he supposed it was at least half a day's ride left and thus, tonight offered nothing but recuperation and conversation. It was as if their band had forgotten for a moment that they were in a windy, dark forest, with wolves and enemies on all sides; even Gawain seemed to be more at ease, and that was a rare sight. 

Lancelot met his gaze across the fire and in turn, the knight raised the bowl at him, a simple gesture to have him come over. He knew he needed to eat but still he bowed his head, eyes coming to rest on Goliath for a moment longer. Pulling up the waxed blanket another inch and smoothing a hand over the oily fabric, he hoped that he’d managed to get the horse dry enough. The northern wind scratched rougher without the daylight to heat its touch, and the last thing he wanted was for Goliath to fall ill. Both of them had been cooped up for a while, and as much as the stallion had yanked on the reins in the excitement in the first hours of the journey, Lancelot knew better than to let him exhaust himself. 

Crouching down to rummage through the saddlebag, he glanced at the Fey gathered around the campfire, but they were engrossed in their own animated conversations. Soothed, he fished out the wooden spoon and bowl before walking over to Gawain who gestured towards the cast iron pot; Lancelot filled his bowl with barely a spoon’s worth and sat down next to the knight on the fallen log. 

The stew heated the wooden bowl quickly, and for a long, aimless moment, he basked in the feeling of holding something warm in his hands. A day in the saddle without gloves had prickled them numb – too bad the same could not be said for his headache; it was bad enough that at some point Goliath’s rocking gait had almost turned him green. 

“Not that hungry?” 

Lancelot opened his eyes, not even realising he’d closed them in the first place, and glanced at Gawain who nodded at the bowl in his hands. He raised his eyebrows in an indifferent reply, only to get betrayed by his rumbling stomach in the following moment.

“Eat,” said Gawain with a twitch at the corner of his mouth. The campfire reflected in his eyes, but there was more warmth there than that; enough of it to force some of the cold that was biting into Lancelot’s skin to retreat.

He brushed away a wet leaf that clung to his cloak and idly whisked the spoon around for a couple of turns. Steam rose from the spoon as he carefully lifted it, the words of a grace ready on his lips.

 _In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti_ , he repeated inwardly, still unable to let go of the harmless habit, and took the first bite; the spice hit first, then the salt. The meat was tender enough that he barely needed to chew. 

The men barked in laughter, and Lancelot’s gaze shot up. They were talking in Sylvan, the common tongue for all Albion Fey – a language he did not understand. Concerned, he let his eyes wander over the half-circle and only when no one looked back at him did tense prickling along his spine ease; today, he wasn’t the target of their humour. With tension drained from his shoulders, he idly resumed eating.

As hunger faded by each slow bite, so did the twitter of Sylvan – as pretty and incomprehensible as bird song. In the time that had passed, he’d only picked up a handful of words from the days spent with the healers. He knew how urgent the word _hurry_ sounded, or how the Fey greeted each other, but most of his interactions had been healers pointing sharply at whatever ruined pile of bandages needed scrubbing, or at the herbs waiting on the table to be ground; there hadn't been any time to talk slowly enough for him to learn.

One part of him figured he would probably always be on the outside looking in, but he told himself that it was better to be here, where he belonged – at least if Gawain was right about him. After all, if he’d survived these years in the abbey, he could handle this as well. At times the fierce Fey warriors weren’t that different from the pugnacious Church children – a thought that almost brought a smile to his lips.

The stew warmed him from the inside out in the most blissful way, and he spared the pot a second glance once his bowl was scraped clean. Glancing around, Lancelot made sure that no one was going for the second serving before slowly easing himself down onto the ground to move closer to the campfire. Hesitantly, he reached out – only to have one of the twins swiftly intercept his spoon with their own, almost knocking it out of his hand.

When he looked up, the Tusk boy shrugged half-heartedly in an insincere apology; Lancelot drew back slowly, unwilling to begin an undignified quarrel over something so trivial – especially with everyone’s gaze now burning heatedly on him. 

But then Bate – out of all Fey – scoffed and nudged him with his boot. “You can have it,” he said. 

Lancelot blinked, barely believing his ears, but before long Bate was already directing his ill-temper at the boy. He tapped his hand at the back of the child’s head, hard enough to send his too-big hood down before his eyes. 

“Thaid, you are too old to play with food. It is either that or carrying a sword – and I doubt you should be doing that if you are willing to steal just out of spite. Got it?”

The boy pulled his hood back gingerly, pale cheeks flushed pink. “Sorry,” he mumbled, this time a little bit more sincere.

Bate nodded curtly, seemingly satisfied with the reprimand, but still looked over at Gawain. Lancelot’s gaze drifted between the two; the men exchanged an exasperated, but fond look. 

When the faun noticed him staring, he brushed him with a quick glance but didn’t say anything else. Feeling confident that it wasn’t a long-winded trick, Lancelot helped himself to another spoonful before leaning back against the log. The twins now faced each other and bickered lowly with only their own ears in mind. Next to him, he heard the silvery voice of Gawain speak, obviously addressing the youngsters. From the knight’s mouth, the rolling, lilting syllables of Sylvan sounded almost soothing, and he let them roll over him, fairly sure it was safe.

The heat from the fire reached Lancelot’s numb toes and slowly crept up to radiate through his entire body; it eased the dull throb of his headache as well, and he let out a soft breath. Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to let the guard down a bit and truly take in the world around – to hear it speak in scents and whispers not even the other Fey could perceive. In the crowded quarters of the lakeside town, he had to suppress it and it was like wearing a muzzle to get through the day, but now he could let his senses expand and roam.

It felt as if the world shattered into pieces only to rearrange itself anew. Apart from the howling wolves in the distance – a thing that others heard as well, given the way they sent uneasy looks over their shoulders and into the dark trees – he could also hear the faraway murmur of the creek; the hollow pecking of a woodpecker in the depth of the woods; the soft rustle of mice in the wilting grass. He could smell them even if he put his mind to it – an earthy scent that haunted most castles and keeps. 

While the Fey called him a bloodhound, he doubted they realised how accurate the hackneyed nickname actually was. Most days, when surrounded by horses and unwashed bodies, he found his keen sense of scent more a hindrance than a help, yet there was more to his gift than its violent aspects. Outside of tracking prey, it was an innocent thing – like a bauble in a babe’s hands; it was useless, but still, Lancelot kept it close to the chest. These days, bereft of any possessions, he got to have the scents all for himself at least and he collected rare savours like little treasures – the smoky whiff of a campfire, the sweet tang of ripe brambles… and the sage and cloves of Gawain's skin. 

He'd learnt to distinguish it from the other Fey in his first weeks among them, when the knight had come to check on his recovery. When a fabric of the healers’ tent rustled as someone came in, Lancelot already knew who it was without turning his head. They’d talked briefly, conversations usually cut short by both ache and duty from their respective sides. Still, it’d been a blissful respite from staring at the ceiling in silence while listening to the man on the cot next to him mumble sea shanties as if possessed. 

Back with the Paladins, he’d never had to bother about camaraderie; however little he’d talked, they’d listened to his low voice without mockingly pretending not to hear it – a thing that Fey did often. Though he had to admit the Red Brothers’ respect was mostly due to his Father’s influence; the old man had always made sure to carve out a spot for him during the slow nights around a campfire. Instead of keeping him as just a captive animal forced to track his own kind, Carden had elevated him into something far greater – he’d believed him to be strong enough to overcome his demon-born nature in time; he’d even trusted him to lead and command.

The question of what Father would say of him now still haunted him. He forced it down during the day, but then it came crawling back in the twilight and often left him wondering whether the path he’d chosen was right if it meant abandoning the man who’d raised him. But at every dawn, drained and aching from arguing with himself, Lancelot always came to the same conclusion. 

Wicklow had guessed right – when he’d seen Percival get dragged before the priests, it’d been like watching his own memory through someone else’s eyes. He’d saved the boy because no child should ever be forced to endure what he’d gone through; to be picked apart and stripped of dignity until there was nothing left to salvage. He’d grown up being told that pain cleansed – that it burned away his sins through each throbbing reprise and perhaps that was true, but it took away more than just his wicked nature. The pain didn’t just cleanse – it uprooted and destroyed; it made one forget. If losing his salvation meant that one child would be spared such a fate, then it was the sacrifice he was willing to make. Whatever Father thought of him, wherever he was right now, Lancelot prayed that the old man was in good health – and that one day he would understand why he’d done what he had.

Despite everything, he still dared to hope that redemption was within his reach and that maybe it could be found among the Fey. He knew that the memory of the fires he’d lit still burned bright in their minds, and that they would hold off on any chances to prove his worth for a long while; but he could wait. 

At least Gawain seemed genuinely willing to put their past behind them. Lancelot had – in Father’s words – always reacted to kindness and true enough, he’d found himself turning to the Green Knight like a bindweed curling towards the sun. It was a tender, hesitant thought, unsuitable for the wartime – but he couldn’t raise his hand to tear it out of his mind. Subtly, it had grown like a vine uncurling up sombre stone walls, burrowing into the cracks, and bloomed silently whenever his gaze lingered too long on Gawain – like it did now. 

All at once, he noticed that Melle stared at him from across the fire. Lancelot blinked out of his daze, realising he’d gotten lost inside his head. In the next, he became aware of how everyone had their eyes primed on him all while they sniggered and leaned in close to whisper into each other’s ears. 

Lancelot ducked the Moonwing’s burning gaze and sat up straighter against the log, shoulders drawing back as a ball of ice settled in his stomach. He sat the empty dish to the side, cold hands coming to squeeze between his thighs as he listened to their hushed giggling. 

There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that they were talking about him now, and that would be easy to ignore, but then he heard Thaid say Gawain’s name as well. He glanced up at the knight, who looked poorly amused from where he sat with the spoon in his mouth, rolling his eyes and shaking his head in disagreement. Thaid snickered, head bobbing eagerly at Lancelot and when Gawain gave him a side glance, his curiosity got the better of him. 

“What are they saying?”

The knight shrugged dismissively. “Nothing—just fooling around.” 

But others seemed to be of a different mind.

“Come now—it’s a shame for him to miss the joke. So, Ashman, you want to speak the language, right?” asked Bate. The faun leaned back against the log and tilted his head, something predatory gleaming in his dark eyes. “Let me teach you. Say _sérce_.”

Gawain sighed with exasperation and pointed a spoon at him. “Don’t.”

“No–no, Gawain, the whelp wants to learn; let him,” the man argued lazily.

The knight glanced between him and Bate, but Lancelot didn’t look back – he wasn’t going to ask the man to defend him.

“Go on,” Bate prompted with a challenging tilt to his chin, and it was the way he said it that finally made Lancelot snap.

“ _Sérce_ ,” he said.

“ _Imestél_.”

The group snickered, and Gawain glanced between them again, a frown deepening on his face; yet he said nothing.

An uneasy suspicion crept in – Lancelot thought he’d heard that word before from somewhere, but he couldn’t tell when. The expectation hung heavy in the air, and the voice at the back of his mind that told him to shut up cowered beneath the collective stare of the group. 

“ _Imestel_ ,” he repeated, voice dropping lower. 

The group doubled over in laughter; one of the twins hooted even, but Bate gestured at them impatiently, not taking his eyes off the Ashman, and the Fey obligingly quieted down.

“Good—good, now the last one: _melhaín_.” 

At first, Lancelot didn’t say anything. His heart pounded hard in his chest and he slowly ran his eyes around the half-circle; the stifled snickering calmed down until the loudest thing around was the crackling campfire. But the silence made the weight of their stares feel even worse.

“C’mon Ashman—don’t be shy, just say it,” urged Bate with that wide grin. His eyes gleamed across the fire to the point it became impossible to look at him.

Lancelot’s gaze dropped to the dancing flames. There was no way to back down now. He breathed in through his nose, bracing before uttering icily, “ _Melhaín_.” 

Regret washed over him like a tidal wave as they roared with laughter. He felt his face heat up as he feverishly tried to piece together what he possibly could’ve been asked to say; it probably wasn’t as funny as they made it out to be.

He clenched his jaw shut, gaze sweeping over the howling group. Melle wiped tears from his eyes, and Thaid pulled his hood down over his face as if that would suffocate his bubbling laugh. In the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Gawain’s unimpressed face.

“What does it mean?” he asked, this time louder—stronger than before to make himself heard over their jabber. 

Bate calmed down with a heavy sigh, a smile stretched wide from ear to ear. “Let’s see...” he began, pretending to contemplate as his face settled into a smug expression, “... how do I put it— _I hope you like them bloodied_.”

The answer unleashed yet another round of jolly laughs. There was a cruel, triumphant gleam in Bate’s eyes, and Lancelot tasted ash on his tongue. The angry pulse of headache flared into a white, hot pain that made him squeeze his eyes shut; his ears rang loud enough to drown out the Fey’s hollering, but then Thaid’s loud yelp made Lancelot open his eyes again. 

Everyone’s eyes were still at him, as the boy gestured at him wildly – only when their gazes met did he stop, but that didn’t rub the smugness off his face. Others looked just the same, conceited and amused; Lancelot couldn’t bring himself to glance at Gawain to see whether he wore the same expression. 

Between the headache that came back with renewed rage and the humiliation, he finally had enough of them. Lancelot pushed himself up abruptly and all at once, the Fey fell silent as if struck and reached for their daggers. 

Just like that, and it was a standoff. He grimly savoured this moment – he was unarmed, and they still feared what he might do, what was that if not respect? 

Lancelot would swear that he could feel Gawain’s eyes on him, but he didn’t turn on his heel to check. Instead, he arched a brow at Bate in feigned confusion. 

“Why are you so quiet all of a sudden?” he asked with an eerie calm, and there was a menacing rasp in his voice that only deepened at the sight of the Fey’s frowns. 

He glanced over the half-circle of fighters – each and every one of them looked away when their eyes met. 

“Is that because of the wolves?” he challenged with a crooked grin that lacked all of the humour; it was a sneer, a taunt. There was a breath of silence where anyone could have opened their mouths – but they didn’t. “No need to fear them, when I am here.”

“Ashman.”

Lancelot perked up at the sound of Gawain’s voice, eyes flitting to the knight at last. His face was hard and the flickering shadows from the campfire made every line more pronounced; there was darkness behind his eyes, something that he dared not to cross. 

Realising what a scene he’d caused, he took a step back, gaze falling low and tension draining from his shoulders. Still, he kept silent, lips pressed together defiantly. 

The silence ruled for a moment too long, making it apparent that no apology would fall from his lips. Instead, Bate breathed out sharply through his nose in disbelief.

“Perhaps you should put your dog on a leash, Gawain,” he drawled out with thinly veiled contempt.

“Enough,” Gawain said with force, pointing his finger at Bate. “Lancelot is not a dog—he is as much a Fey as any of you, so stop bothering him with your idle bickering – we need to work together.”

Still, the merry air was irrevocably spoiled and it only took the knight to raise his eyebrows pointedly to send everyone scurrying to get ready for the night. The Fey dared not to exchange more than hushed whispers under the stormy gaze of their leader. 

As Lancelot put his cutlery away, he stole a glance at the man and their eyes met briefly. There was still that darkness there—disapproval, perhaps, but it was hard to tell; regardless of its nature, it tugged on a cord in his chest and evoked a wave of regret for ever having recited the words in the first place.

Before his mind could wander farther, Thaid almost dropped the empty pot on Melle’s leg, and Gawain jerked to the side, shooting a hand out to steady the boy. The abruptness of it made Lancelot snap out of his thoughts, and he looked away, wondering whether he should tear that weed of affection out after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have two songs to accompany this chapter, you'll find them linked below – both links lead to Youtube. 
> 
> \- [I Turn To You – Darkseed](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IFxPR286Bjg)  
> \- [Dust Bowl Dance – Mumford & Sons](https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=CSSWKzsOVnI&feature=share)
> 
> With that said, we hope you enjoyed the chapter! The next chapter will probably be posted tonight, or tomorrow depending on when we can get it beta read. :) We have also created a joint Tumblr blog for this story where we post gif-sets and such, feel free to come and follow us! 
> 
> [The Wicked Stories Tumblr](https://the-wicked-stories.tumblr.com/)


	4. ... in Sheep’s Clothing

The next morning, Lancelot rode last. 

Goliath hung his head low as they walked along the pebbled slope. At least they were a matching pair with yesterday’s blunder hanging heavy over Lancelot’s head. They were travelling along a rocky road with not a tree or plant in sight – a barren landscape that did little to scatter his thoughts. His mind echoed yesterday’s conversation like a curse, breathing life into that ember of humiliation that sat lodged in his chest – at least he was seething enough with silent rage to feel a bit warmer. In a haze, he wondered briefly if the lack of fires he’d lit to burn people down was to blame for the cold he felt more sharply than the other Fey seemed to. 

It was a vile, forbidden thought; sharp and deadly, much like all the other times he’d spied moments where he could kill them all, with or without swords. He wondered what would happen if Gawain knew the true extent of his thoughts; if he would unleash his fury as Father had done and whip skin from bone. For all his honour and tolerance, Gawain was a warrior, and they’d clashed enough times on the battlefield for Lancelot to know that the man knew how to be violent. He was strong and capable, but beating someone into the afterlife with his bare hands didn’t seem like his thing. Perhaps he would simply drag him out into the forest and put him down like a rabid dog, swift and hopefully painless.

Because if there was something he was sick of in the weeks that’d gone by then it was the pain. The angry pulse at his temples didn’t burn anything out of his head, not in the same way bringing the whip to his back could do. If God’s grace felt like anything at all then perhaps it was the bliss after forty psalms – when the blood trickled fresh and knotted the skin tight with shivers. The right kind of pain was such a delicate, intimate thing and for once, he found himself longing for it.

Everything had been so simple back with the Red Paladins—back with Father, but he couldn’t let himself compare the past with the present. He couldn’t let himself miss anyone or anything from the life he had before. 

“Falling asleep in the saddle?”

His eyes shot open, head quickly turning to the direction of the low, husky voice. He blinked a couple of times, realising that Gawain had stopped to wait for him and sluggishly shook his head in reply. The others were still riding before them, chattering loudly and patting each other on the back.

“We aren’t far from that forest villagers said all the herbs we need grow in,” Gawain said; it was as if he tried to sound cheerful, but instead everything just came out strained. 

Yesterday’s event tugged hard on the strings between them. There was no doubt in Lancelot’s mind that Gawain wanted to talk about what had gone down; the tension that clung to the air said as much. The mere memory made Lancelot’s face warm up again as he remembered the implication behind Bate’s words.

So he just hummed, hoping it would make Gawain drop the conversation. The silence that followed was enough to wake the butterflies in his stomach and when he glanced over at Gawain, the man was staring at him intently.

“Do we need to talk about it?” he asked with a serious look as if he was gauging how to better advance in a fight. 

Lancelot straightened in the saddle, shoulders heaving up in a deep exhale as he averted his gaze; focus settling between Goliath’s ears instead. “About what?” he countered evenly.

If they were wielding swords, he would have surely heard them clash right now. There was a heavy pause, only filled with the whistle of wind that brought fragments of Sylvian. In the corner of his eye, he saw the change on Gawain’s face just as he opened his mouth.

“I didn’t tell them to shut it because it would have only made Bate mock you more—not because I approve of what they say,” Gawain said, and he looked pitiful—or apologetic, if one dared to hope. Not that he had anything to apologise for; he wasn’t the one who had uttered those words. 

Lancelot breathed out deeply; all the tension drained from his shoulders with the long exhale and he turned his head back to Gawain. “I know,” he replied after a long, suffocating moment and meant that. 

If it’d been the other way around, he wouldn’t have missed a chance to retaliate either. However, imagining himself in their shoes didn’t soothe the sting of humiliation. Even though Lancelot didn’t understand what it meant to be Fey, he did know that he was sick of being ridiculed and ignored. With the Paladins there had at least been an uneasy respect and camaraderie with the brothers; here, not even that. 

“You’re one of us—they will see it. But for things to get better, you need to meet them halfway,” Gawain added gently. 

It didn’t ring entirely true in Lancelot’s ears. Was abandoning everything he had ever known, defeating the best Papal warriors and almost dying not enough to at least earn him his name? Monk, dog, wolf, murderer – the list could be made long, and the only ones that called him by his name were Gawain and Percival. He wondered absently if he could smell the lie if he were to come a bit closer to the knight, but quickly abandoned that idea – it almost felt like blasphemy, for some reason.

“Do you think they would allow me that close?” he asked instead with a bit of edge.

“Well, I would,” the knight grinned roguishly, and then frowned again. “Besides, things can only go up from where you are, don’t you think?” 

The words knocked the air out of his lungs for more reason than one. Said so bluntly it felt like a blow, but it was also an honest assessment of Lancelot’s situation _.  _ After all the incomprehensible whispers behind his back, it was just what he needed to hear and perhaps, it was even meant as an encouragement. What Gawain had said first had surely sounded like a promise, reviving that bud of hope as if it had never even faded. 

Lancelot’s knuckles went white around the reins as he tore his eyes off him. All at once, his mind was as barren as the landscape around them – words escaped him and when he didn’t reply, he saw how Gawain looked away as well. Things didn’t turn as stale as a moment before, but there was an awkwardness that only made his stomach flutter with more vigour.

In the corner of his eye, he watched how Gawain patted Gringolets’s neck with a small smile. The white horse tugged at the reins, its head flicking up and down as if their slow pace was the worst agony ever endured. 

When Gawain caught him staring, he opened his mouth again. “Speaking about allowing them close—how about training some of them? I did not joke when I said your people need you—they need to become better fighters, as well.”

“I don’t have my swords,” Lancelot muttered quietly; resentment yanked something in his chest. This was certainly the longest he’d ever gone without bearing arms and it was – to put it frankly – awful. The absence only fed into the feeling of being utterly useless, that he wasn’t worth more than the dog they said he was. 

“Don’t think you need them to beat half the people in the camp,” Gawain said with a crooked smile; a stray ray of dim sunshine reflected in his green irises, lighting them up. 

Lancelot worried his bottom lip; heart suddenly pounding hard in his chest. Expectation bloomed in the air between them and it took him a hot second to gather the courage to reply. 

“It’s not the right time,” he said carefully as it took every bit of him to not break eye contact, “if I hurt someone it would stoke their hostility further.”

“I see,” Gawain muttered and just like that, his eyes dimmed. “Well, I’ll do what I can to make them change their minds – and, hopefully, you will come 'round as well.”

It was the way he said it that left Lancelot’s heart in his mouth. His nails dug into the palm of his hands from squeezing the reins so hard that he absently wondered if it was drawing blood. He feverishly tried to string together a suitable reply—anything that could make Gawain understand that this wasn’t wise; that he wasn’t safe. Not anytime soon at least. 

“Gawain!” shouted one of the riders and when he looked up, he saw Thaid waving widely at them. The knight shot him one last look before steering Gringolet into a swift trot.

A small wave of relief washed over Lancelot, grip going lax around the reins. He smoothed a hand over his thigh as he watched Gawain ride up to the others; it was hard not to be marvelled at how full of vigour he was despite the haunted look that sometimes graced his face. Lancelot still had no idea how he’d escaped from Brother Salt’s Kitchens, but then again that night was a patchwork of memories at best for everyone involved. 

When the wind swept by, he pulled the cloak closer and peered at the party ahead to see what the commotion was about – where they’d previously prattled, now the Fey were instead pointing up the ridge and at the sky. It was more fucking rain coming, he realised. It felt like half a day so far without it had been a favour, but the clouds ahead looked too dark and ominous for them to hope for more. 

Gawain turned back in the saddle, met his gaze despite the distance between them and with a nod of his head urged him to pick up the pace. Even Goliath seemed to perk up at the group suddenly pulling away and Lancelot gently urged the horse into a soft canter to catch up; his headache shifted from that whisper he could often ignore, to a mighty roar.

The Fey spurred their horses on, hurrying to reach the forest before the road became impassable. They found shelter under an old oak, tethered their horses and the twins veered off first, quickly disappearing into the gloomy forest to collect some firewood before it was all drenched. 

Lancelot rubbed his forehead, desperately willing the headache away – it almost felt like the world still rocked as if on horseback. He sucked in a bracing breath as he took the first, knee-weak step away from the large oak but before he knew it, Gawain was in his space – hand coming to rest on his chest.

“Stay and rest up,” he said and Lancelot looked up at him with a clotted sniff; the icy wind had done more than just vex his headache. “Watch the horses—Bate will stay with you.” 

Lancelot bobbed his head in reply, ignoring the way his stomach coiled at the mention of Bate’s name and in turn, Gawain patted him once before he turned on his heel and walked away, gesturing for the rest of the group to tag along. As Lancelot watched them disappear further into the woodlands, he realized it was perhaps for the better – a tracker with a runny nose was worth nothing. 

The first raindrop landed on his hand and he shot a look in the other direction where the twins had ventured off to; hopefully, they would be back soon. The rain began slowly and he moved back into the cover of the old oak – a rising hum all around them and its monotonic tunes quickly drowned out the voices and footsteps of the other Fey as they moved further away. Before long, the falling rain was all that could be heard. 

He glanced up at the old oak – even though the leaves were yellowed, he couldn’t see a speck of the dark sky. He smoothed a hand over his arm to see whether a couple of rain droplets had managed to sneak through the greenery, but became pleasantly surprised to find it dry. Hopefully the old tree would keep them sheltered from the worst. 

The stillness made his thoughts louder and Gawain’s words from before echoed in his mind, stirring up a restlessness that made him glance at the horses. Bate sat further to the side from them, rummaging through a saddlebag.

A dappled bay caught his eye – the one Melle had claimed as his. Where the others stood still with their ears folded back as if the cold couldn’t bother them, the bay didn’t seem to find the same calm. The horse chewed on the bit and trampled on the spot, throwing its head from time to time – enough for Lancelot to glance back at it a couple of times.

He met Bate’s gaze on accident, and the look he shot him was loud and clear – it wasn’t his problem, horse duty or not. Lancelot bowed his head and turned to face Goliath instead, pulling out the grain bad from the saddlebags. The black horse perked up because what wasn’t better than a bag of oats after a long ride? 

Silence ruled between the two men, only challenged by the low chewing from Goliath and the occasional thud caused by the bay’s impatient scraping at the ground. Every time Lancelot glanced up at the anxious horse, he found Bate staring back at him and the air between them grew tenser with each brush. 

It wasn't his problem, Lancelot reminded himself sourly. 

The sound of approaching footsteps shattered their standoff. If the heavy steps and mumbled curses were anything to go by, it was Melle already returning. For a scout, he walked with astonishingly little finesse. 

Lancelot idly brushed Goliath’s forelock to the side so that it wouldn’t hang before his eyes, still holding the bag of grains in his hands. 

“Bate!” Melle called out, “want a break from coddling the Ashman?”

He clenched his jaw, but didn’t look up from Goliath. 

“What is it?” Bate asked coldly. For all the animosity between them, they both seemed to be less than impressed with the Moonwing.

“I found some fern,” Melle said in a weird, almost conspiratorial tone – like it was some big secret.

Confused, Lancelot looked up at them, expecting another withering glare but Melle didn’t even look at him. Some tension drained from his shoulders and he glanced at Bate – the faun looked equally lost to the scout’s implication.

“So?” he frowned.

Melle rolled his eyes. “Fern, Bate—healers need it too, and it is rare. Might win you some favours, you know,” he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and to Lancelot’s surprise, he could see the faun’s cheeks redden faintly.

Bate cleared his throat. “Alright,” he said as he shifted his weight as if to get up, but froze the moment after – he looked Lancelot straight in the eye, frown deepening quickly, and then he looked back at Melle. “Gawain would gut me if I abandon the post, you know how he is.”

Usually, Lancelot would have frowned at such blatant disrespect, but the faun’s exasperation was tinged with fondness – it sounded like an old joke shared between the brothers in arms. 

“Gawain doesn’t need to know,” Melle said simply with a sly shrug. “Besides, you know he only does it because he thinks we are scared of his new pet.” 

Bate pushed himself up so abruptly that one of the horses startled back. His face was drawn tight and he didn’t look amused in the slightest over the petty remark; Lancelot couldn’t help but think him a fool for getting baited so easily. 

“Show me where it is,” he growled before he turned to Lancelot, finger pointed sharply at him, “and you – stay put.”

Lancelot exhaled sharply through his nose – he didn’t take orders from them. He raised his eyebrows once in an unimpressed look. 

There was a breath of silence where the tension made itself known and then Bate strode toward them quick enough that Goliath yanked his head out of the grain bag, dark ears folding back. Lancelot tugged at the tethered reins, hand immediately reaching out to calm him down but Bate was already in their space, catching the horse’s mane and spooking him further. 

Goliath reared his head high as he stepped to the side and bumped into Lancelot, sending the grain bag falling toward the ground. He narrowly avoided getting trampled and in a split-second decision, he threw a hand out, pushing Bate away. It wasn’t hard enough to send the man stumbling to the ground, but enough for him to take a step back.

“Back  _ off _ ,” seethed Lancelot. 

If things had been tense before, it didn’t compare to now. 

Goliath anxiously backed away and Lancelot fed him the reins as he didn’t take his eyes off Bate. 

“If your beast takes a step from under the tree it’s going to break a leg over the first stone it finds,” he sneered as he pointed at Goliath; where his dark mane was usually flat and unbothered, there was now a simple knot. 

“You are lying,” Lancelot gritted out, anger and fear boiling beneath his skin. “I would know if you could do it.”

“Would you? Do they teach you magic in those abbeys of yours?” Bate grinned – it was a smug, cruel grimace. “Then I wonder why you monks seemed so mighty surprised when our Queen’s curses tore you apart.”

Lancelot blanched at the memory of the swirling, pulsating mass of roots; anger quickly calming down to a quiet simmer. Perhaps the Fey didn’t show everything they could do in terms of magic – that would be the smart thing to do, to have an ace up their sleeve, and Gawain surely would’ve thought of that.

He bowed his head in defeat, jaw clenched so tight that he thought his teeth would shatter. 

“No reply, eh?” mocked Bate. “Good—c’mon Melle, let’s go and pick that fern of yours.” 

Lancelot watched as they walked away almost triumphantly, hating the way his heart hammered in his chest. It wasn’t until they’d both disappeared completely out of sight that he turned to face Goliath who’d calmed; the dark beast let out a snort. 

He sucked in a calming breath as he crouched down to pick up the spilt bag of grains, tucking it away in one of the saddlebags again. Goliath bowed his head, nibbling at the oats on the ground and dark ears clipping back and forth; the knot in the mane looked innocent enough. It was a spoof – Lancelot was sure of it, but he wasn’t going to risk Goliath to call their bluff. 

The throb between his ears eased little by little; the sophomoric sound of falling rain blending out the worst of the ache. He scrubbed a hand over his face before pulling down the hood; he tilted his head slightly to the side and then to the other, stretching the sore muscles in his neck. He reached up to pull the pins out of his hair and scratched the places where a few strands had pulled tight, revelling in the relief – a small part of him was glad that the tonsure was slowly growing away. The hair was barely long enough that he could twirl it around a finger, but it was better than a bald patch that caught everyone’s attention.

He smoothed a hand over his neck and up, gathering the long hair again before pinning it back in place. The dappled bay from before still stood restless at the edge of the herd, head still flicking up and down high as it strained against the tethered reins. 

Lancelot glanced at Goliath and the knot in the mane, and then back to the bay. He turned left in the direction where the twins had taken off and then right to where Bate and Melle had gone. 

All at once, he realised that for the first time in months, he was alone. A certain sense of liberty unfolded in his chest, stilling the anger from the quarrel further and he wondered idly if Gawain would have their heads if he took off when they were supposed to be watching him. 

The hurried scraping from the horse absorbed his attention once more, stifling any thoughts of vengeance. Realising that he could check up on the horse without getting stared down, he double-checked the knot on Goliath’s reins before walking over to the dappled bay. 

“Easy,” he muttered as he grabbed hold of the reins and tugged gently, urging the horse close but the horse resisted, head rearing high and the whites of its eyes showing. “Easy.”

The horse breathed out harshly, nostrils flaring, but little by little, it lowered its majestic head and took a small step forward. He petted the creature over the wide blaze, receiving a loud snort in reply. 

“So what’s wrong?” he murmured more to himself than anything as he looked over the horse. Its knees were a patchwork of scars, telling the tale that it had probably fallen more than once. The fur was long and unbrushed, its mane sloppily cut and the tack was in poor condition – leather dried up and cracking in some parts. 

He frowned in surprise – one of the first things he noticed about the Fey was how they seemed to treat animals almost as if they had a soul. His gentle attitude towards Goliath had earned him many a scoff in the Paladin’s camps and he’d often wondered if it was his bestial nature that was to blame for the soft spot he felt toward most animals. Perhaps he’d been right all along but here – among his kind – it was usual to care for the lesser, and so it begged the question of what kind of Fey would mistreat their mount in this way.

He dragged his palm alongside its neck and shoulder as he moved to the side. The saddle-girth caught his attention immediately – the broad band almost dug into the horse and when he tried to gauge the tension by slipping two fingers between it and the horse’s side, he couldn’t even get a fingertip in between.  _ Definitely too tight _ , he thought as he reached for the buckles, quickly loosening it.

The horse deflated like a waterskin being poured out, its head coming down low. A small, sorry smile tugged at Lancelot’s lips as he petted the animal on the side – he didn’t have the heart to tighten the girth again. Instead, he unfastened the saddle-girth completely and hauled off the saddle, setting it down on the ground. He reached for the saddlecloth, carefully folding the warm fabric in two as he kneeled down to place it on the saddle seat. 

All at once, the hair at the back of his neck rose—he heard something. Footsteps, quick ones at that, like someone was running, and that was never a good sign. He twisted off the ground and whirled around, only to come face to face with a Fey sword.


	5. True Colours

Time slowed as Lancelot watched the blade slash through the air. A distant part of him recognised that it would cut him in two – so he swivelled to the side but with little grace, knees weak and muscles stiff from the ride. The sword swung a hair away from his chest and for a beat, he hoped the awkward dodge had been enough to still escape unharmed. As quickly as that thought had bloomed, a scorching sting spread across his forearm and in the next, he saw how blood welled through the rip on his sleeve. 

The bay horse jerked its head up, the whites of its eyes showing as it reared up on its hind legs and tore the reins off the barren branch with a loud  _ snap. _ The spindly branch swung back like a pendulum, barely avoiding Lancelot but hitting the animal on its front legs, spooking it further. Everything happened in a blink of an eye, and before Lancelot could react, the horse nearly trampled him; the ground trembled as it rained down on all hooves and took off with a running start. He staggered to the side, clutching at the wound, hot blood seeping through his fingers as he desperately tried to regain balance. 

He didn’t notice a treacherous root until he was already falling face-first onto the ground. His mind distantly noted the  _ pang _ in his wrist as he awkwardly caught himself, bloodied palm coming off smeared with dirt. He scrambled to get back on his feet but before he could get anything more than a hand beneath himself, the zing of steel sang through the air and raised the hair at the back of his neck. The second strike was coming. 

Still breathless from the fall, he rolled to the side before it could slash him across the back. The sword sliced at the hem of his cloak, fabric tearing as he tried to get his knees under him and crawl away, but before he could do it, the attacker grabbed a fistful of his hair and hauled him back up onto his knees.

He slammed his elbow back blindly, hitting something soft. The attacker let out a short, angry howl, but before he could throw another uncoordinated attack, the man looped an arm around his throat, putting him in an unforgiving chokehold. His hands shot up to grab at the attacker’s arm and he tugged down with all his might, desperately thrashing against the hold. He gasped for air, panic already burning like wildfire within him as he struggled to shake off the attacker that clung to him without an inch to spare.

But the harder he struggled, the less air made it into his lungs. The lack of air—the lack of leverage—the lack of control blew every sensation out of proportion. The shallow cut throbbed as if it’d sprouted a heart of its own; each pulse stretched hot and far up his arm, mighty enough to send his vision swimming with how much it burned. 

In a short, frightening moment of clarity, he realised that the blade was laced with poison. 

He heaved for air, dropping one hand from the attacker’s arm, and thrust back his elbow with more force this time, feeling it collide with something hard. His body screamed at him to do more than just defend himself because he couldn’t breathe—he couldn’t  _ breathe— _

—the pressure around his neck relented and he nearly choked on the sudden rush of air _ — _

—the kick landed at the centre of his back; a boot straight onto the lashes that’d only just healed. His vision blacked out as he fell forward onto his hands, and for a dizzying moment, it felt as if the ground would swallow him whole.

He gasped for breath as he clutched at his throat, smearing blood and dirt; vision expanding by each heaving breath. The gleam of the sword had him peer up; dark boots kicked up dirt, cleverly staying out of reach as the attacker rounded him. He pushed himself up, straightening where he was still on his knees – his hands balled into fists as he met the pale eyes that were alight with rage.

Pale eyes he knew.

It was fucking  _ Melle. _

The Moonwing bared his teeth in a silent, ferocious snarl as he stared him down. Lancelot swallowed hard, and clenched his jaw shut as his eyes darted up and down this fucking _ idiot— _ who did he think he was?

Lancelot spat on the ground, the back of his hand coming up to wipe over his mouth. Melle breathed hard like a raging bull and he jerked up the sword with a snarl, pointing it right at Lancelot’s chest. Even though it was an arm’s length apart from him, the dark, oily tint that coated the edge was impossible to miss. It must have been viper venom he realised, unless they had changed concoction since the last time he stood face to face with a Fey sword.

“Get up.”

Lancelot breathed out hard through his nose as he stared up at Melle. The world rocked back and forth as if at sea – nausea bubbled up his throat in the same manner blood seeped from the gash on his arm. He pressed his hand against the burning wound, heart beating so hard that it felt like he could count each beat by the ebb and flow of the blood running down his fingers.

But his urge to fight mellowed at the realisation of how bound his hands were. They would skin him alive if he so much as laid a finger on another Fey. He couldn’t escape—couldn’t risk Goliath; the odds of him taking them all down was slim with Gawain most likely lingering close. Add the fact that the poison was burning him from the inside out – that he was weak and fatigued after weeks of remaining idle, and he wouldn’t live to see another day if he fought back now. 

“Get up and fight!” Melle jabbed the sword closer.

Lancelot didn’t even flinch—didn’t even blink as he glared up at the man. Melle squared his shoulders, nostrils flaring and for a suffocating moment, it was as if the world would shatter into a million pieces. 

“Get up and fight, damn you!”

Melle broke eye contact first, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder. Lancelot’s eyes leapt there as well – it was where Gawain had gone – he ought to be back soon, he just needed to stall until then. 

“No,” he bit out, voice low like a whisper but no less harsh for that. 

Melle’s face twisted in a bitter, pained snarl; the tip of the sword wavered. “Is it because you’re only brave when it’s little Moonwings you slaughter?” 

The accusation landed like a punch beneath the belt; it sounded too sorrowful to be just a turn of phrase. Lancelot swallowed over the lump in his throat that didn’t seem to go away; he narrowed his eyes – a feeble attempt to remain unphased by the words, by the burning sensation that was crawling up his arm and past the elbow. 

It was starting to  _ really _ fucking hurt right now. Still, it couldn’t compare to the first time he’d gotten nicked with a venom laced blade – he’d been on his knees in agony for a week after. To rectify that, Father had cleverly decided that building up a tolerance would be the best course of action and right now, he was grateful for that. 

Melle renewed his grip around the sword, seething as he took another step forward and thrust the sword closer – the cold tip tapped just beneath Lancelot’s chin; this time, it was harder not to flinch. 

“Get up.”

“Why?”

“Gawain must think you were the one to start it—and you were.”

Guilt carved its way into his chest, momentarily stilling the boiling anger within him. As he looked at the translucent feathers bristling along Melle’s cheeks, he was sharply reminded of another time he’d seen a face like that. His mind erupted with that hollow, crunching sound of delicate wings coming to pieces beneath his heel. He squeezed his eyes shut over the memory—over the burning pain, and shoved it to the back of his mind. 

“I was on the wrong side of the war,” he whispered sharply, eyes only coming open again when he felt the cold edge bite against his throat. His nose stung from the smell oozing off the sword—the poison was giving off that foul stench of old rosewater and mouldy pine.

Melle huffed disbelievingly. “So you keep saying. But children? Who forced you to hunt them down, you animal?  _ Why couldn’t you refuse to do it?” _

“I didn’t harm the children,” Lancelot said like a mantra; louder this time. But from the look on the man’s face, he knew it was not going to change a damn thing. He shifted his weight slightly, mindful of the sword beneath his chin as he readied himself for a fight. 

“You can tell these lies to Gawain—I was there!”

Lancelot felt his chest contract painfully—face warming up as if caught telling a lie. Some of the Moonwings had indeed been so small that he’d asked Father whether they were grown men, and the old monk had merely patted him on the shoulder and smiled, reassuring him that they were but what if—

“—last chance, Monk, get  _ up!” _

Instinct finally took over – but instead of going up, he fell back and then twisted, ignoring the flare of pain it brought and kicked out, trying to sweep the scout’s legs from under him. Melle jumped back at the last moment but as he stumbled, catching himself on the ground with one hand, and tried to regain his balance, Lancelot already rolled out of the way. He pushed himself up to stand – already standing on one knee but then Melle launched at him again. When Lancelot looked up, the man’s face was smooth with eerie calmness as he raised the sword over his head and swung once more. 

It would’ve been a bad hit – but Lancelot reacted without a thought and charged like a viper, diving to the side of the blade and drove a fist into Melle’s gut. The Moonwing stumbled back from the impact, only momentarily clinging to his feet by filling his fists with Lancelot’s cloak, tearing it as Lancelot shoved him back hard and tore the sword from his hands. 

He hauled himself up, finally rising to his full height. The grip of the sword was unfamiliar to his palm, the balance uneven and different from his own longsword, but it brought him that same sense of power – of control he hadn’t felt for such a long time. 

It was thrilling, intoxicating almost, and perhaps Melle saw it, too, as Lancelot towered over him. His knuckles whitened around the grip; blood roared in his ears as he took a step toward him. The scout scrambled back and slipped on wet leaves, eyes blown wide with fear. He froze, face hardening within a blink and determination twisting his features all over again; Lancelot saw the gleam of steel as the man snatched out a knife from his sleeve and threw it at him.

Lancelot ducked, the throwing knife narrowly passing over his shoulder. The moment it took for him to dodge was enough for Melle to get back on his feet and draw the dagger from his belt. Lancelot’s shoulders heaved as he breathed out hard through his nose. 

_ Must have planned it for some time, _ he thought darkly as he watched how the Moonwing sunk into the fighting stance once more; the rage twisting his face was diluted with desperation – eyes fearful and mouth angry.

Between the anger and the pain, he wanted to kill him – after all, it would be such an easy thing. The feeling was obviously mutual with Melle being determined to fight him to the death, but a small, rational voice at the back of Lancelot’s mind had him stand down. He didn’t have anywhere to go even if this was a golden opportunity – everything depended on where Gawain was and when he would come back. 

He still needed to win time, but no words of his could placate the scout – he was so out of his mind that he didn’t even try to yell for help, and why  _ wouldn’t _ he do that? The others should be close enough to hear—

The hair at the back of his neck rose anew; they were already here, he realised as he heard the quick, heavy thud of approaching boots behind him— 

—he spun around on his heel, sword still in hand but the moment he saw those dark, green eyes he dropped it as if the hilt scorched his hand but it was already too  _ lat— _

—Gawain tackled him to the ground, pressing against every bruise and Lancelot’s vision swam with black for a moment. Strong, unforgiving hands pinned his wrists to the ground – hard enough that he felt bone rub against bone and he arched away out of instinct–out of  _ hurt _ , but Gawain countered by digging his knee mercilessly into his stomach, pushing the wind from his lungs. 

A strangled noise escaped past his lips as the hard weight shifted against his bruised ribs. He didn’t realise he’d squeezed his eyes shut until he opened them again and found Gawain staring down at him with unbridled anger burning bright in his eyes. 

“Melle? You alright there?” the knight called out, not taking his eyes off Lancelot. 

He wanted to melt into the ground under the heavy gaze; he didn’t even blink – the only part of him that still moved was his chest in short, shallow breaths. His hands slowly went lax under Gawain’s. 

Gawain’s gaze flickered down for a short blink – almost as if he was taking note of his breathing because in the next, he drew his knee back, adjusting his weight to still keep Lancelot trapped underneath. Something twisted in his gut at the feeling— something that made him go limp, but between the pain burning through his body, the vertigo, and the smell of blood and sage, he couldn’t spare a thought to figure out why his stomach clenched like this.

“Yes,” came the muttering reply. “I—I’m—I’m fine,” Melle forced out with a stutter – it sounded like he was shaking. Lancelot could feel himself trembling – small tremors running through his body that he couldn’t will away; it wasn’t because of the cold as much as the warrior’s rush.

Perhaps Gawain noticed them, too because his frown eased and he slowly pulled back. The look in his eyes matched the wariness on his movements; it was as if he tried to figure out if Lancelot would fight back. 

He wasn’t going to. The anger that’d boiled in his veins and breathed life into every escape plan he’d ever thought in the weeks that’d gone by had vanished in the fall. He swallowed thickly, tasting blood and blinked a couple of times; in the corner of his eye, he saw a glimpse of the sword he’d held just moments ago. 

Gawain patted over his pockets in a quick, surveying touch and then on his sleeves before he froze, the tips of his fingers brushing by the gash on his forearm and Lancelot flinched, pain turning white-hot and consuming in an instant. His mouth fell open, apology ready to leap off his tongue but Gawain wasn’t even looking at him – instead he peered at the wound on his arm. Lancelot could feel the blood trickle over his skin, and he saw how Gawain’s fingers gleamed red – perhaps it was no fucking wonder that he was feeling light-headed. 

“Get up,” the knight said – it was an order, dark and heavy and impossible to ignore. Lancelot clenched his jaw at that sucking sensation at the pit of his stomach, eyes momentarily meeting Gawain’s as he pushed himself upright to sitting. 

Gawain planted a hand on his chest, stopping him from moving further – eyebrows pulling together as his fingers swept over Lancelot’s cheek, urging his head up. He let the man look, watching as his green eyes lingered on his throat – he swallowed over that lump there, figuring that it was already blossoming into a nasty bruise if the subtle ache was anything to go by. 

He could only hope that the injuries would speak for themselves. Gawain had eagle eyes; he was observant enough to pick up on inconsistencies and fill in the blanks, and hopefully it wouldn’t be his word against Melle’s. It was impossible to tell what was going on inside his mind though – Gawain’s face was inscrutable and the longer he stared, the tighter the silence grew and Lancelot wanted to squirm beneath that unforgiving gaze.

It only felt like he could breathe again when Gawain pulled away and rose up, idly gesturing for him to do the same. He pushed himself up on weak knees, hand pressed against the wound on his forearm, and felt the heavy weight of the knight’s unwavering gaze. After an aimless moment, he turned to Melle who sat farther away.

“There better be a good explanation for this," he said, and Lancelot felt a prickling sensation at the back of his neck over the dark undercurrent in his voice; it was demanding and merciless. 

The world still rocked all around him, but at least the wound didn’t burn as much as it itched and bled. He bowed his head slightly, only peering at Melle’s direction through his lashes – this was his fucking mess and he ought to explain it. 

Melle huffed as he pulled himself up with some awkwardness. Lancelot met his gaze for a blink, but immediately looked away and back up to Gawain; it was enough to ignite a reply. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” Melle shot forth, teeth clenched and frown marring deep. “The weeping bastard tried to kill me!” 

“Really? And you are still standing?” Gawain asked, eyebrows lifting incredulously as he nodded slightly at Melle’s feet.

“Perhaps he’s not as good as you think he is,” the man offered with a mutinous, enraged snarl. 

“He is,” the knight said calmly. “I fought him—I know what he can do. You would be dead if he attacked first.”

“Well, the Hidden must disagree with you,” Melle seethed, fingers flying up to one of the small trinkets most Fey wore around their necks. In Lancelot's experience, they never seemed to help, and Gawain must have known that, too. 

He didn’t look the slightest bit impressed over Melle’s excuse. Lancelot watched the flicker of emotion that passed over Melle’s features – the tension in his brow eased first, and then he sighed; anger draining as quick as sand slipped through one’s fingers. 

“Yes, fine—it was me,” he confessed, abandoning the ruse. “I wanted to murder that bastard. And you—you know why. Tell me, Gawain, do you  _ really _ think he doesn’t deserve it?”

Lancelot’s heart skipped a beat; fear and despair growing that lump in his throat, and he looked up at Gawain with bated breath. He wasn’t looking at him, though; instead his gaze burned into the Melle who glared back at him with unwavering defiance. Not a good strategy, Lancelot thought.

“What I know,” Gawain said, deceptively mild—a stark contrast to the harsh whisper of steel as he unsheathed his sword, “is that right now he is bleeding and you are not.” 

Lancelot saw Melle’s eyes widen in shock, but the pleasure of watching his defiance crumble like a shattered mirror only lasted until there was a rustling sound coming from the bushes, too clumsy and too slow to be an animal. He turned slightly toward the sound and in the next moment, Bate came barreling through the bushes, a fern clutched triumphantly in one hand and the reins to the bay horse in another. Tugging the animal along, the faun rushed over to them, his mane of elaborate braids sticking out in all directions and riddled with stray leaves. 

“What happened?” he panted, eyes darting between the trio until finally settling on the Green Knight.

“Oh, not much,” Gawain said in a deadly calm voice, lowering his sword but not sheathing it, “just an attempt on your brother’s life.” 

If looks could murder, Bate would’ve dropped dead that instant under Gawain’s gaze. The faun bowed his head, hand coming to scrub over his face – it looked like he was suffering through a knife plunged in his gut. 

“Gawain—I thought I scared the Ashman enough to not try anything,” he hurried to explain, but Gawain’s lips twitched in annoyance, and the faun stopped talking at once.

“I meant not Melle,” the knight said, “but Lancelot.”

Bate’s eyes rounded and darted to him – taking in his torn clothes, and then shifting to the sword laying between them. His face darkened again while he stared at the Moonwing, but before he could take another step, the bushes rustled once more and absorbed everyone’s attention.

“Gawain!” 

The familiar face of that archer – Lancelot hadn’t learned her name yet – appeared through the shrubbery and she stopped dead in her tracks, longbow clutched tightly against her chest. 

“A ymosododd y mynach?” she asked, a worried frown creasing her face. The twins crowded behind her, both carrying meagre bundles of brushwood.

Lancelot felt his heart speed up; the world rocking with slightly more vigour. He knew those two words well enough. The first one meant  _ attack _ – the healers had uttered it frantically one day after a whole scout team had arrived mangled to pieces after a run-in with something with more claws and teeth than the Red Paladins. The second one was what they called him.

Slowly, Lancelot stood up, still clutching his arm; for a heartbeat, he swayed to the side, but then he managed to get himself upright. He glanced back at Gawain and watched how a muscle in his jaw jumped and for a beat, he remained silent as if he was gathering his thoughts. 

“Melle," the knight said finally, his steady voice cutting through the muttering of the others, and silence fell over the clearing at his words, “felt the need to exact revenge on Lancelot. While you all know the custom,” he continued as his severe gaze roamed over the group, “this time we will do it differently." 

Lancelot saw Melle’s eyes dart to the forest as he took a small step back. There was no doubt in Lancelot’s mind that the Moonwing was considering his chances with the wolves – perhaps hoping to wait out the Green Knight’s wrath. 

Another shift to his side caught his attention and he watched how Bate moved closer, back arching tall and shoulders growing wide; it was enough of a gesture to tell which side he was on. By the looks of it, Melle saw it too, and the faun’s face didn’t change as they stared each other down. Bate didn’t even have to reach for his sword to make him abandon an idea of escaping; Melle’s shoulders slumped dejectedly.

Bate broke the silence first, and then the archer joined in, and then Gawain replied harshly, and then everyone was talking but him. There was a sharpness behind every word, and he could guess what they were saying. 

What had  _ really  _ happened. 

Why was the Green Knight protecting the murderer.

Why would he believe the snake in the grass. 

Something rotten sat heavily in his stomach as he waited for his sentence. He stared down at the sword on the ground; hand slowly coming off the wound – it was still bleeding, and he pressed hard against the wound once more. A distant part of him wondered if it was the poison thinning the blood. 

“Since Lancelot isn’t allowed any weapons, it would not be a fair fight.”

The sudden switch back to the common tongue had Lancelot look up so fast it prompted a cramp in his neck. Gawain stared back at him, and there was a moment when the mutters of disagreement sounded – they were all silenced the moment he raised his hand. 

“I am aware—but the Fey Guard code must be obeyed,” Gawain glanced at him. “I am his warden – I will do it for him.”

Lancelot clenched his jaw; he tasted ash on his tongue. There was a hard tug in his chest, an uneasiness that made him shift his weight from one foot to the other – a reluctance that made him want to scream out loud in protest. If they could just give him a sword he could fight his own battles. It wasn’t that he doubted Gawain – far from it, but it was a question of honour and right now, it felt like he was devoid of everything even resembling that. 

Fair or not, he’d killed Moonwings with his bare hands before, and Melle was hardly a force to be reckoned with. 

Gawain turned around, facing Melle. “You can settle your dispute with me.”

Whereas the murmurs had sounded disappointed before, they now sounded astonished. Melle’s eyes widened almost comically large as he glanced between Lancelot and Gawain disbelievingly, his face paling. 

The air almost coiled between them as silence ruled without mercy. Gawain flexed his patience; steely green eyes remaining steadily on the man until Melle finally budged, swallowing thickly before he shook his head. 

“I—I will not ask for that," he stammered out.

“No?” Gawain lifted his brows, contempt lacing his words. “So be it.”

Lancelot let out a low sigh, relief washing over him but the tension returned all the same when he saw Gawain’s mouth fall open once more.

“Now, does anyone else want to challenge the Weeping Monk?” he asked, steel ringing in his voice as he turned slowly around so that he could face each and every one, sword still in hand; its blade gleamed softly. He didn’t raise it – just kept it in a firm grasp should someone be stupid enough to take him up on the offer. 

One could almost hear a pin drop; not a peep was uttered from any of them and as Lancelot’s eyes shifted over the quiet lot. He didn’t see anyone step forward either.

“No one?” Gawain clarified and there was a breath of silence where anyone could’ve said something, but they maintained the silence. “Then listen—that Fey,” he pointed at Lancelot with his free hand, “is responsible for a lot of death and heartache.”

Lancelot barely had time to feel the cold grip of fear before the knight lowered his hand and continued, not looking at him. “But so is every one of us—we have all shed blood.”

“Not like he did,” Thaid muttered quietly and Lancelot’s eyes darted to him; the boy didn’t look back. All at once, he remembered when he’d dared to ask why Gawain promoted so many young boys to scouts when they were left as the head of their families. It was because they needed a purpose again – something to live for when all else was lost and it was with a sinking heart Lancelot realised he had two more orphans on his ledger. 

Just like the realisation, another spell of vertigo struck him like lightning. His heart pumped furiously in his chest, throat feeling even tighter than before as he swallowed. His headache flared, beating in time with the burning wound and his wrist properly  _ throbbed  _ – it was enough for him to sink down onto his knees, earning himself a sharp look from Bate and a concerned one from Gawain. 

He narrowed his eyes at him as if to gauge that he was alright – and he was, he just needed to ground himself; he gave the smallest nod in confirmation. There was a sense of calm on Gawain’s face, but his neck was corded tight with tension and his lips were one taut line.

“Wrong,” Gawain answered calmly as he turned to Thaid. “You are young, boy. It’s your first foray. You haven’t seen what we did to Paladins just last week— and the war has lasted far longer than that.”

It was a warning, but beneath there was something else. Like a bolt out of the blue, the memory of Gawain’s haunted face when Father Carden told him about the butcher boy came to mind, but before he could dwell on the matter further, Bate scoffed and crossed his arms over his chest as he sized them both up. There was doubt written on his face. 

“We have spilt a lot of blood these last months,” he admitted, and there was something tense in his face despite the unfazed tone of his voice, “but we were not the ones to draw it first.”

“Neither was Lancelot,” Gawain shot back as he eyed the group again. “Want to know who started it? The Man-blood priests,” he spoke louder now, each word burning with fierceness, “they were the ones who orphaned the Ashman and stole him from his folk when he was a child.” 

Lancelot closed his eyes; it felt as if the weight from their stares would dig him into the ground. He’d given Gawain the short, easy version of what’d happened all those years ago back when he’d been cooped up at the healers – or perhaps  _ given _ was the wrong word; it’d been as if every word had been torn out of him with tongs.

While he knew his story was bound to come out sooner or later, it now felt like he stood naked before them – exposed and bare, and their confusion that clamoured the air didn’t make matters any easier to bear. His skin crawled and his body ached, and he was  _ done  _ with this – with being at the centre of attention and slowly getting pulled apart as if being stretched on a rack. 

“But he has found his way back to us,” Gawain continued. “We are the only kin he has left – and it is because of him that we have a fighting chance.”

Lancelot pursed his lips together – the foul taste of ash in his mouth intensifying.  _ Couldn’t he just shut it,  _ he thought as his heart raced alongside his spiralling thoughts. He didn’t want their pity; what had happened to him had happened to so many others and he didn’t want to dig that part up – didn’t want to weaponize that in a feeble attempt to gain some semblance of acceptance. 

“So, this is what you will do – you will bury the past and move on. We are at war and I will not tolerate your feelings getting in the way of Fair Folk survival,” Gawain said with a tired exhale following soon after. “Now stop dallying—we need to get a fire going or the cold will get to us before the enemies and it will be the lung fever that does us all in.”

He sheathed his sword and that was the end of it; there was a simmer in the air as the group scattered, cautiously resuming to their respective duties. He didn’t hurry to join them, instead he turned to Lancelot with a concerned expression and quickly strode toward him. The leaves rustled as he sank down onto his knees before him. 

“You alright?” 

“I’m fine,” Lancelot mumbled, and as he looked up, Gawain looked him dead in the eye. For as dark as the frown was, there was a softness behind his eye – a glimmer that hadn’t been there when he’d reprimanded the group. “Seems I’m not much of a weapon,” he added softly.

“Just because you restrained yourself doesn’t mean you are any worse as a fighter,” Gawain said as his face softened further; there was even a twitch at the corner of his mouth, “I’m impressed you haven’t lost your head after all – or rather that Melle didn’t lose his.” 

The hint of dry humour at the end loosened the tension in Lancelot so fast that he swayed a little, despite still being on his knees. 

Gawain frowned, gaze falling low. “How’s the wound?” 

“It…” Lancelot clenched his fist absently, blood still trickled down on the inside of his sleeve and onto his hand; it was piss-poor luck that he’d managed to get cut on one and fallen badly on the other. “... burns.” 

“Burns?” Gawain’s face darkened. “That doesn’t sound right – let me see," he motioned impatiently for Lancelot’s arm, and he stretched it out obediently. Gawain yanked his sleeve up, revealing the cut that stretched from his wrist and half-way up his forearm; it was a shallow gash, a clean cut and hopefully not in need of stitches, but it was blue around the edges. 

“Viper venom?”

“Uh-huh,” Lancelot offered in a faraway voice. 

“Shite—how are you still conscious?” Gawain motioned for Bate who still lingered in the background. “Come Ashman – we need to patch you up.” 

“No—I need to check on Goliath, Bate did something to him,” Lancelot mumbled as he slowly pushed himself up on wobbly legs – Gawain must’ve noticed because in the next, a strong hand steadied him – two, actually. 

Gawain shot Bate a sharp look and the faun, pulling his hand away, shook his head.

“I did nothing to your beast, Ashman,” he said, “that’s just an old wives’ tale.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, whose side are you on -- Melle's or Lancelot's? Comments and kudos are always appreciated, it's always a blast to hear your thoughts about the story! Stay tuned for more soon. :)
> 
> EDIT: Also sorry if you've gotten double emails about this chapter, we suffered some technical difficulties.


	6. And Now The Truth

The campfire burned bright beneath the old oak. In the same way the flame created an almost perfect ring of light and daringly fought off the approaching dark, the red crown stretched its embrace wide enough that it sheltered both them and the horses from the dripping rain.

Drip-drop, drip-drop, drip-drip-drop. 

Lancelot’s headache pulsed to the beat of raindrops colliding against a nearby boulder. Right now his keen senses were more of a curse, and the harder he tried to ignore the sound, the louder it seemed to grow. The antidote Gawain had poured down his throat – a grassy, bitter drink that’d come in a copper vial – brought no pain, but felt as if a tingling flame was licking up his insides, and he listened with worry to the odd sensation, unsure whether it was magic or just the volatile fight between the toxin and the medicine.

The cut on his arm now didn’t burn as much as it itched beneath the makeshift bandage – Bate had quickly wrapped it with a rag. The world didn’t rock as easily as before, either, and the pain – he could deal with the pain. 

“Feeling better?”

Lancelot blinked out of his stupor, eyes darting to Gawain in an instant. He swallowed down that nasty taste again and bobbed his head once. 

The warmth coming from the campfire was a soothing thing – the others had gotten it started quickly, the brushwood thankfully not too damp despite their bad luck with the weather. It felt as if he’d gotten dragged to the tree just a moment ago, but now he realised he’d sat there long enough for his trousers to partly dry. The scuffle had left both of them wet and muddy, and he caught a glimpse of Melle sulking further away, half-bare and looking with vague disgust at his own soaked garments.

Gawain tilted his head slightly to the side, eyes flicking up and then down. “You should take off your – here,” he muttered and then he was already leaning closer, sneaking a hand behind Lancelot’s back; in the next moment, there was a quiet cling of the buckle coming open. 

A weight shifted off Lancelot’s shoulders as the cloak straps loosened. He sluggishly shrugged it off and it fell toward the ground with a muted splash. A shiver spread mercilessly over his body, shoulders coming up against his ears in a meagre attempt to stay warm; his clothes were drying from the outside in, and he could feel how soaked his undershirt still was. 

Gawain leaned back and pulled Lancelot’s cloak with, bunching it up in his arms. “I’ll hang it to dry,” he offered, and then he was already pushing himself up. “While you should change before you catch a cold—can you?” 

Lancelot nodded again but when he looked up, he saw that Gawain was already reaching out a hand. There was dirt beneath his fingernails, and the pink scar that ran across the palm of his hand looked even angrier in the fire’s light; it was the one he’d seen a hundred times before but couldn’t for the life of him remember if that was brother Salt’s handiwork or not. 

He took his hand, grimacing against the flaring pain as Gawain helped him up as if it was nothing. The world rocked like the wind blowing over a field of wheat – a soft, gentle sway that was easy to counter – the potion must have been working already.

In the corner of his eye, he saw how Bate glanced at him with a faint frown, and straightened a bit more, ignoring the angry pinch in his ribs. It wasn’t nighttime yet even though the dark clouds made it seem so, but it still felt like he’d walked a thousand miles and so he had to mind every step as he made his way over to Goliath. 

The black horse perked his head up, dark eyes following Lancelot intently. He felt a small smile stretch his lips and gave the animal a light pat on the wide neck. Goliath replied with a nicker, head turning to track Lancelot as he rounded him – he felt the weight of scavengers’ stares on his back, as well, and did his best to appear as collected as usual. 

But the moment he was shielded by the stallion’s body, Lancelot let out a quiet sigh, shoulders slumping as he began unlacing the grey surcoat with numb fingers. He felt both hot and cold, thirsty and not thirsty, but tried to distract himself from that weird sensation by counting in his mind. It only helped so much, though. The swelling from the fight was already setting in; a steady throb that matched the headache and moving the wrist he’d fallen badly on was as difficult as flexing the tightly bandaged one. 

After his fair share of fights, he knew that the day after it would only hurt more. There was nothing to do about it, though – they still had a mission and tomorrow they would ride out again. 

Goliath chewed on the bit, dark ears angling back and forth. Lancelot paused as he glanced at the stallion; even in the dim light, he could make out the knot on the mane. He spared a glance over Goliath's back to where the rest of the group crowded around the campfire, still waiting for the water to boil. They spoke in hushed voices, already absorbed in each other once more and the only one who faced his way was Gawain – there was a pensiveness on his face as he absently nodded again and again to whatever the Fey said. 

Goliath snorted loudly; the sudden sound made Lancelot realise that he was staring again. But just as he went to pry his attention away, Gawain glanced up and met his gaze from afar. 

Lancelot bowed his head in the blink of an eye, caught red-handed. Stubbornly clinging to the illusion of privacy that Goliath offered, Lancelot pretended not to notice, focus coming to needle itself onto that knot in the mane. He untangled it gently and once the strands fell apart, he combed his fingers over the spot, making it look like it’d never been there at all. 

Content with erasing all traces of the threat, he slowly went back to unlacing the surcoat. It wasn’t the black one – the one with the holy cross stitched high up on the chest – but another one Gawain had dropped off during his last few days resting up at the healers. It was a grey thing, shorter than the older one and whoever wore it before presumably died in it as well if the awkward stitching across the midriff could tell any tales. 

Lancelot unlaced it all the way up to his armpit, saving himself the trouble of having to pull it over his head and shrugged it off without too much effort, mentally congratulating himself, though even the voice in his head sounded sarcastic. Goliath blew out loudly through his nose, head craning to the side to spy on Lancelot further as he hung the damp surcoat over the saddle seat. He petted the stallion over the neck again, earning himself another loud snort before Goliath turned his head forth. They were soulless animals – Father had always said as much – but he couldn’t help but believe that they were God’s purest creations. There wasn’t a mean bone in them, and no doubt in their minds; good and evil didn’t exist in their world, and for that Lancelot was envious. 

He idly resumed picking at the lacing on the gambeson. With lacing all the way down his chest and stomach it was equally merciful in terms of just shrugging it off; the fact that he had to rethread the thing later was a different matter. Once off, he stowed it away on the saddle seat as well. 

The wet undershirt clung to his body, and the bare idea of lifting his arms any higher than his chest drained him like a wine barrel getting uncorked. He sucked in a bracing breath before gingerly tugging the thin shirt up, slowly pulling it above his head. The frustrating pinch in his ribs turned into an angry tug and he squeezed his eyes shut, breath stuttering as he bit on his lip to muffle a groan and— 

—the collar caught on the pins in his hair. 

By the mercy of God,  _ really. _

He exhaled sharply into the cocoon of cloth around his head, pain becoming white-hot and bothersome again as he strained to wrangle his head out of the collar. But then suddenly he heard the sound of approaching footsteps, slow and unhurried, and then – an amused exhale. 

Before he could wrangle himself free, a warm hand came to rest on his shoulder. In the next, his hair fell loose and the same warm hand gently helped him off with the shirt. 

Gawain looked back at him with that gleam in his eyes. There was a slight curve to his lips; perhaps the beginning of a smile. 

“I didn’t need any help,” Lancelot muttered as he looked away and chucked the wet shirt up on the saddle like the rest. 

Gawain hummed as he passed back the hairpin. “I could see that,” he said, “but I’m not here for you.” 

Lancelot frowned; a slither of goosebumps erupted over his arms and chest, knotting the bare skin tight. He squeezed the hairpin in his hand, knuckles going white and wrist aching to the beat of his hammering heart. 

Gawain looked away as he gestured toward Goliath, hand coming to smooth over the wide neck. “Came to unsaddle him,” he said matter-of-factly. 

“Uh-huh,” was all Lancelot managed to get out. He swallowed over the lump in his throat, mind blank and body strung so tight that he thought he’d lose his head over all the sensations. That hot, crawling sensation burning him from the inside out did nothing to the chill that danced on his skin. 

There was a tension between them – something unspoken that wiped away the meagre traces of amusement of Gawain’s face. “Do you mind?” he asked as he arched a questioning brow. 

Lancelot bowed his head, gaze falling to the ground. “No, I don’t,” he mumbled as he desperately tried to will his heart to stop racing. 

“Figured you shouldn’t strain the wound,” Gawain said, and then he was moving closer – stepping right into Lancelot’s space and he instantly took a step back, giving him the berth needed. He watched how Gawain smoothed a hand over Goliath’s shoulder, gently shoving the wet clothes on the seat slightly to the side before he lifted the saddle flap to reach for the buckles to the girth. The need to remain shielded from the rest still left him standing close to Gawain – so close that he was convinced the other man could hear every hammering heartbeat.

He knocked that thought out of his mind. With Gawain half-turned away from him, he gingerly raised his hands to gather his hair, fingers coming up to quickly comb everything back and pinning it back in place. He dragged his fingers over the scar, ensuring it was covered. When he looked up, he noticed how Gawain had frozen in place; hands still on the saddle, but his eyes – he was looking him up and down. 

“That’s going to bruise,” he said and there was that concern again—except that it was something else as well, something darker. Lancelot glanced down and even in the dim light, he could see the red blossom in a seemingly perfect oval shape where Melle had landed the kick on his ribs. 

The weight of Gawain’s eyes on him made him feel even more exposed; like he wasn’t wearing any clothes at all. While he knew others weren’t bothered by bathing next to each other, let alone undressing, for him showing skin meant being vulnerable to more than crude jests. It was, ironically, even worse among the Fey because they always stared – everyone did, and Gawain was no exception. 

The silence that weaved itself thick between them only made everything worse, and Lancelot cowered first, shoulders rounding as he cautiously turned so that he could reach for the rolled-up blanket strapped behind the saddle seat, awkwardly angling himself so that Gawain couldn’t see his back. 

“Is antidote helping already?” he asked. “It’s a quick concoction.” 

“Yes. But I could have waited it out,” Lancelot mumbled as he wrapped the blanket around himself. 

Gawain flicked his eyebrows. “Could you?” he shot back, not looking entirely convinced. 

“Not the first time I’ve been nicked by a Fey sword,” Lancelot said, words coming off sharper than intended.

“I’m well aware of that,” Gawain said, fatigue bleeding through. “Stop being stubborn. I think we had more than enough trouble for today. You are lucky I had the antidote – though I thought it would be Thaid who would need it this time.” He sighed ruefully and continued with a shake of his head. “If you knew how often a trainee nicked themselves with viper blades.”

Lancelot pulled the blanket tighter around himself. It was hard to tell if Gawain was just tired, or vexed from the scuffle – one part of him figured it was both, and the last thing he wanted was to be even more of a burden. So, he kept quiet and the knight seemed to understand that he wouldn’t get an answer because he shifted his attention back to Goliath. The tension didn’t ease, not even when Lancelot took another step away to give him the space needed to unsaddle the horse. There was a habitual quickness to the way Gawain loosened the buckles and hauled off the saddle, and Goliath seemed to deflate on the spot, head coming down with a low rumble. 

“Might be a couple of hours before your clothes dry,” Gawain said idly from where he sat crouched on the ground next to the saddle with the wet clothes in hand. “I’ll get you a spare shirt.” 

Lancelot kept silent, and Gawain didn’t seem bothered by it. Instead, he bunched up the wet clothes in his arms and pushed himself up, walking over to where Gringolet stood closer to the campfire. He made a low whistle – barely louder than that of a bird – and hauled the wet clothes to the first person who turned, which came to be Thaid. The boy awkwardly caught the messy pile, looking both shocked and sour, but obediently pushed himself up to hang up the clothes. The others snickered.

Gawain walked up to Gringolet and scratched him behind the red ears before he rummaged through the saddlebags. He pulled out a green shirt, and then he was already walking back, rounding Goliath and stepping right into Lancelot’s space; he held out the shirt and when Lancelot reached out to take it, he didn’t let go.

“I need to know your side of the story,” he said without ever taking his eyes off Lancelot; without even blinking. 

All at once, Lancelot realised that the unspoken tension between them had been this – Gawain had waited for him to speak up, to seize the moment of them being alone and explain what had gone down. 

“Of course,” he replied all while steeling himself from the inside out; it was easier said than done with his heart startling worse than a skittish stable cat. 

Gawain took a step closer, grip still tight around the shirt and Lancelot breathed his head full of sage and cloves. “Start from the beginning,” he began with an eerie calmness, “what were you doing?”

Lancelot breathed in deep through his nose, scent intensifying to the point he had to look away, gaze drifting off to the side. “I was checking on the horse–” 

“—Goliath?” interrupted Gawain with a tilt to his head.

Lancelot frowned as he looked the other man in the eyes once more. So it would be like this then, he thought sourly. He knew how this would go – rapid, demanding questions that left no time to spin a pretty lie. 

“No,” he said.

“Then whose horse?”

“The bay one.”

“Why?”

“It was spooked.”

“Uh-huh,” Gawain didn’t look convinced. “What was wrong with it?”

Lancelot shrugged. “The saddle-girth was too tight.”

“And that bothered it?”

“Yeah,” he said as he felt his face heat up as if he was telling a lie. 

“You know that’s Melle’s horse, hm?”

He swallowed hard, trying to figure out Gawain’s angle. “I do,” he mumbled. 

Gawain stepped closer almost as if he was going to tell a secret – so close that Lancelot could feel the heat radiating off him. He instinctively took a step back, shoulder blades meeting the warm fur of Goliath’s flank. 

“You weren’t trying to sabotage him, were you?” Gawain asked, voice coming down threateningly low.

“No.”

“So if I go and check if the tack is all in order, I won’t find a compromised strap or anything?”

Lancelot yanked hard on the shirt that’d been caught between them, pulling it free. “Go ahead,” he dared without blinking – face hot from more than just the potion’s side-effects.

There was a pause – a moment where he believed he’d pushed too hard, but then something erupted on Gawain’s face; there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth, a subtle amusement and just like that, it was like it had never happened. “What happened after that?” he asked. 

“I heard someone running toward me—and when I turned around, he was there.”

“Did you attack first, or did he?”

“He did,” Lancelot said tersely. “The horse took off running and Melle struck out first.”

“And then you two fought.” 

“More like he beat me up,” Lancelot murmured and looked away; it felt wrong to even say it out loud – like he was admitting how useless he’d become. 

Gawain huffed; it almost sounded amused. “Looks like it – yet you don’t strike me as the warrior who gets beaten up by a single man.”

If that was an attempt at being funny, it wasn’t – not the slightest. Lancelot sighed deeply as he kept himself from rolling his eyes. “I am not,” he said, voice dropping lower, “I could’ve killed him. But I didn’t.”

Gawain’s face hardened as he crossed his arms across his chest. “Why not?”

He wondered whether Gawain expected him to talk of mercy; whether he was going to call him out if he tried his hands at a lie. May the heavenly Father forgive him for trying to bend the truth, but it seemed better than disappointing the man who had just shown him mercy, again. 

“You told me yourself,” he said quietly and for a flickering moment, they weren’t in the forest, but back in Brother Salt’s kitchens, “all Fey are brothers, and I didn’t want to kill mine.”

There was a pause as Gawain’s eyes searched his face. Lancelot clenched his jaw, straining to hold the impassive mask up perfectly, but it must have been chipped from the wear and tear because Gawain’s face darkened again. 

“Pretty words, Ashman. Now, the truth.”

The words held such an edge that they very well could have been a dagger against his neck; Gawain didn’t have to imply what would happen in case he didn’t give up his true reasoning. His eyes sailed close briefly, fingers tightening around the shirt in his hand, and his heart – his heart was still racing. Perhaps Gawain heard the frantic thuds after all; perhaps it was how he could sense lies. 

He wet his lips as he met the green steely eyes, and without wavering said, “Because you would’ve put me down like a dog if I had.”

It hurt to say those words, but it was the honest to God truth, and truth always hurt; he could only hope it would not anger Gawain further. There was a beat of silence where the knight tilted his head to the side.

“Is that what you believe I would have done?” he wondered, lips stretching in a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes – they were lit with something else, gleaming harshly with the reflections of the campfire. “No, brother… If you turned against us, I would have taken my time with you.” 

The words hit like a sock in the jaw. He could hear how much the man meant it – it was the truth in exchange for the truth, and there was no doubt in his mind that Gawain could make his words come true. The knight was a man of war; he could probably make it hurt in a way Lancelot had never felt before, and a bottomless feeling of dread unfolded within him at the thought. 

“But I have no wish to do that,” Gawain continued ruefully. “And I hope you will not force my hand.” 

Lancelot didn’t know what to say. He wanted to sink through the ground, but with that impossible, he instead turned away from that  _ conviction  _ that was practically radiating off Gawain. The silence spoke for him – agreeing in a way that made Gawain mellow; his shoulders slumped as he let out a sigh. Lancelot shrugged off the blanket from his shoulders and the knight reached out a hand, offering to hold it while he slipped on the shirt. The soft whisper of cloth, and the slightly strained breathing was all that was heard from a moment; the shirt was puffy around the shoulders, around the chest – around, well, everything. But at least it was dry. 

“What happened after?” Gawain asked, steering back the conversation back to its roots.

“Nothing,” Lancelot muttered as he pushed back the too-long sleeves up to his elbow, carefully minding the bandage on his arm; it had turned dark and glistening in the dim light, and he knew it had to be changed soon. 

“Is that so? The sword just jumped into your hand, then?”

“I did disarm him,” he glanced back at Gawain, “but I wasn’t going to use it.”  _ I already told you,  _ he thought as he daringly scratched a finger at the corner of the cut where the itch was worst; fatigue and frustration and ache draining him all at once to the point it became impossible to keep the mask on. He couldn’t help but think the last time he’d been questioned like this – Father had done it then, right after the fight of the mill. It’d been a disaster through and through, and the old man had made sure Lancelot would remember that lesson. 

“Right,” Gawain said, doubt clear in his voice. “Let’s say so.” 

The disbelief shattered something within Lancelot and something – something finally snapped. “Why did you protect me?”

The knight’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you complaining?”

“If you don’t trust my words,” he bit out, refusing to look away, “why do it then?”

Gawain shrugged. “Because you are one of us. And because I hope that one day you will truly mean what you said.” 

After the scuffle it felt like asking the sun to shine in the middle of the night. Why would he consider them as brothers when they would never see him in the same way? Bad blood would stain forever – or so he would have thought if it weren’t for the burn of antidote in his stomach and the green fabric scratching against his skin. If Gawain was willing to give him a chance despite this – despite everything he had done to him, perhaps others would follow his example as well.

Lancelot tried to keep his face impassive, but he faltered under the heavy, piercing stare and confessed – words barely audible, “As do I.”

Gawain’s eyes softened a bit; it made Lancelot lower his guard – made it feel like he was on the right track; like the chance at redemption was still there, a vague outline in the haze of the horizon. Whereas it was he who usually left every conversation hanging, suddenly it was the other way around. The silence coiled in that awkward way as he almost frantically gathered his thoughts to figure out what he had to say next. 

Things had been so easy with Father – he would have already taken the scourge in his hands and flogged the skin clean off his back, but Fey seemed to have different ideas about proper punishment. For their beastly ways of living, they weren’t as violent as he imagined them to be and he had to learn their ways, especially considering how likely it was that he would misstep again somehow, and now was as good a time as any.

“What should I do?” he asked hesitantly. He couldn’t imagine what action of his could possibly make things better that didn’t involve getting the devil beat out of him, but maybe Gawain did. “How can I atone—I don’t know your ways…” 

“You don’t have to hurt yourself,” Gawain said as smoothly as a passing breeze; his hand came to rest on Lancelot’s shoulder.

Lancelot felt a pang in his chest. He still managed a small smile, more for show than anything, but Gawain seemed to settle with it because he passed back the blanket and glanced back at the campfire. They were all staring right at them, but it wasn’t glares – it was curiosity and the moment they realised they were both looking back at them, the Fey turned away quickly. 

Gawain nodded for him to follow. Not a peep was uttered when they returned to the campfire and Bate shifted further to the side, giving them the space to sit down. Lancelot lowered himself on the ground with a grimace, bruised ribs aching anew and he sluggishly wrapped the blanket around himself. He noticed that Gawain didn’t ease himself down beside him, and when he peered up, he saw that the other man was already walking over to where Melle sat. 

“Melle,” he called out as he gestured to the shadows outside the circle of fire, “a word.”

The fact that no one said a thing made the silence uncomfortable again. Lancelot’s heart sped up for no good reason at all; it was like watching a prisoner go up next on the scaffold. The archer and the twins shifted in their seats as Melle inhaled deeply and pushed himself up. He yanked on his still damp shirt with a resolute look.

Lancelot wondered if he would beg for forgiveness, perhaps even for mercy if Fey did indeed find drawing blood as a suitable punishment. The Red Brothers had always begged when caught red-handed, but Fey were too proud. They rarely pleaded, even for their lives.

As he watched Gawain and Melle walk further away until there was no chance of anyone overhearing, he wondered whether the knight simply wanted to postpone things until they were back in town. There was no use to drag a bloodied warrior around when there was still a mission that needed to get done. But then again, Gawain wasn’t one to raise his hand against one of his own; he didn’t instill obedience through pain or fear.

Lancelot tore his eyes away. In the corner of his eye, he saw how Bate’s face was set in a dark, grim expression, while the others looked vaguely worried for the Moonwing. It was what he deserved, he thought almost indifferently and pulled a blanket tighter around his shoulders before lowering his gaze again. 

The silence stretched, the quiet boiling of water and crackle of fire only deepening it. The calm made him once more aware of everything going on with his body – from the strange prickle on his skin, to the throbbing heartache, to the way that awful taste from the antidote still lingered. The sole thought that kept the worry at bay was the knowledge that he’d endured this before, and that he could endure it again. 

“Monk?” 

A soft voice made him look up – the archer stared right back at him from across the fire. 

“You have – bruises here,” she stammered out with a heavy accent, pointing at her own throat. “Need help?”

Lancelot shook his head slightly. She looked away first, fidgeting with her hands, but then Bate perked up, shoulders heaving with a loud sigh. Even in the corner of his eye, Lancelot could see the quiet anger that tightened his face. 

“He does,” the faun said harshly. “You still have the salve?” 

The archer nodded curtly, eyes darting between the two.

Bate opened his palms in an impatient gesture. “All right – why are you looking at me then? Give it to him.”

“Why don’t you do it?” the woman protested weakly as she glanced at Lancelot anxiously.

Bate huffed as he nodded with the ladle at the puttering pot. “Busy, aren’t I? Come on, he isn’t going to bite – Melle beat him up good, that vicious little bastard,” he chuckled mirthlessly, eyes dark and lips twisted in a sneer. “Who knew he had it in him.”

The archer opened her mouth and just like that, Lancelot had enough of them arguing over who should help the wounded, rabid dog that he was. “I don’t need your help,” he gritted out.

Bate raised his eyebrows pointedly. The archer glanced between them; the weary lines on her face were replaced by a frown as she rose up and cautiously moved over to Lancelot. He never took his eyes off her, body growing tense all over again, and the world tilted back and forth in that nauseating way again. 

He wondered abruptly whether he should just get up and back away. Letting anyone close was the last thing he wanted right now; not when his body was slowly winding down from the poison’s effects and with Gawain gone. Before he would make up his mind, she was already in his space and slowly sinking down to her knees next to him. At least she looked as uncomfortable as he felt, and that evened out the field a bit.

She pulled a small wooden jar out of a purse strung to her belt and the moment she opened the lid, an icy smell itched its way up Lancelot’s nose, making him crinkle it, and he frowned as she dipped her fingers into that clear goop. When the woman reached out for him, Lancelot drew back before she could touch him, and lifted his hand instead, palm turned up. Shrugging, she dragged her fingers over his, coating his fingertips with whatever this was.

“Like this,” she said, chin jutting up as moved her hand in small circles over her throat. 

“Let him wipe off the blood first,” muttered Bate and for once it was the archer’s turn to shoot him a sharp look. The faun reached for the saddlebags with a huff, pulling out the waterskin and a spare rag, dampening it before he passed it over to Lancelot. 

The cold, wet rag made his fingers feel numb again, but he quickly wiped it over his throat under their careful watch. Touching the bruised skin was worse than swallowing, but the collective stare made him even more adamant about upholding the appearances. 

The archer gestured idly at herself where he should wipe – more to the side, higher up, a little bit lower – until she finally said with a wry smile, “Gone.” 

Lancelot pursed his lips as he brought the rag down; in his other hand, he rubbed his thumb against his fingers, smearing the thick salve in between. He shot her a tentative look and she gently urged him on with a light wave of her hand. 

She watched him intently as he carefully rubbed the salve onto his neck. For a moment, nothing happened – but then he almost gasped at the way the cooling touch turned into a warm tingle and spread like a fire, but infinitely gentler. When he swallowed, he found that lump in his throat gone and when he traced his fingers over the skin where just the faintest touch had ached, he felt nothing. It was like magic, and he couldn’t help but marvel. 

“Is this sorcery?” he asked, surprise colouring his voice. 

“No. Just an old recipe,” she said; a muted smile tugged on her lips. Her hair looked even redder in the fire’s light, and her dark, doe eyes shone like twin stars. It wasn’t hate or distaste that burned behind her eyes, but something pleading almost. She closed the lid on the jar and glanced to their right – back to where Gawain and Melle stood further away, barely visible in the growing shadows.

“Melle was a fool to attack you,” she murmured as she leaned in close, fingers skimming just over the dip between his collarbones, smudging a speck of salve there, “but he had a reason.” 

Next to him, Bate had shuffled closer to the fire and the sound of the ladle whisking around the pot made enough noise to cover her whisper. Lancelot looked her in the eye; up close he saw the freckles that dotted her pale face, and the fine lines beneath her almond-shaped eyes. She didn’t look old, not with a strand of grey hair highlighting her dark auburn hair, but there was something strange about her face; something ancient and enduring. It was as if she’d lived for far longer than those youthful features suggested. 

She shot a look around the campfire, and Lancelot did the same. Bate fumbled with preparing the food, and the twins sat turned to each other, whispering and gesturing wildly to the direction Gawain and Melle had gone to. When she turned her eyes back to him, the whispering words poured out of her with more ease, though her heavy accent made them sound odd. “They say you are deaf to pleas, but I will still ask – don’t go after him.”

“I won’t,” Lancelot whispered back, even surprising himself how easily the promise fell from his lips. Her eyes lingered almost as if she tried to gauge his honesty, but then she nodded slightly and drew back, returning to her spot across the fire. 

Lancelot renewed his grip around the wet rag, folded it in two before idly running it over the back of his hand, gently scrubbing over the dried blood there. The smell of the salve still chilled his nose, and made it feel like each breath reached deeper; it brought him a sense of calm he didn’t expect, and gratitude chiselled down the last of the anger as he watched her. Between Bate’s cooking and the twins peering up at him with gleaming eyes, the silence didn’t turn entirely bothersome, but they were all taking turns gazing where Gawain and Melle were, anxiously anticipating their return. 

The sound of approaching footsteps had him look up; they others did as well, and Melle stepped out of the shadows, with eyes red and gleaming, but appearing unharmed. Gawain followed, just a couple of steps behind, his face calm and unreadable as ever. The Moonwing slumped back to the ground next to the archer, refusing to look anyone in the eye, and she reached out to wrap an arm around his shoulders, murmuring something inaudible to which he just shook his head, still looking at the ground. 

Lancelot shifted his eyes to Gawain who knelt down next to him, idle hands reaching out to add another branch to the campfire. The crackling fire was suddenly the loudest thing in the world, and there was almost a comical feel to the way he glanced up and met five apprehensive stares. 

"Why is everyone so silent?” the knight asked as he glanced over the whole party. Thaid and his brother looked away, and Bate lifted his eyebrows. The archer was busy tending to a sulking Melle. Even Lancelot glanced the other direction when Gawain’s eyes met his.

“Come on,” Gawain said and sighed; a weathered smile made its way onto his lips. “Not the first time we tried to kill each other – right, Faya?” he asked airily, and the quiet archer frowned at him while the rest of the party shifted their curious looks onto her.

“Don’t,” she warned. 

Gawain winked at her with that cheeky grin tugging the corner of his mouth up; it tugged on something in Lancelot’s chest as well.

“Now that,” Thaid said with barely contained excitement, “I need to hear.”

His brother mirrored the same bottled-up energy and nodded eagerly. Bate huffed as he shook his head, and Lancelot watched how Faya’s cheeks grew ruddy within just a couple of blinks. 

“No, you don’t – Gawain, you promised,” she admonished and held up a warning finger. “Instead of mocking me, go fix the Monk a proper bandage. His is soaked already.”

Gawain eased himself back to sitting with that devilish grin still lighting up his eyes. “Hand me some linen then.”

Faya reached into her pouch and threw a rolled up piece of linen his way. Gawain caught it with ease and all at once, Lancelot found himself tensing once more. Heart pounding harder for no good reason at all and he wanted to protest – to say that he could do it himself, but then Gawain was already shifting so that he sat turned toward him. 

“Not going to bite if I touch?” he asked with the same roguish smile he’d given Faya; it was a joke Lancelot realised, a harmless little jest. 

He shook his head as he held up his arm and watched how Gawain untied the knot with ease. The smell of blood wrestled its way through the scent of the salve. Apprehension made him sit straighter as he watched Gawain unwrap the soaked bandage; it itched furiously and even though he expected a rough treatment, he almost wanted the other man to be a bit careless if it meant getting that itch scratched. 

“Give me,” Gawain mumbled as he nodded at the wet rag Lancelot still held in his hand, and he obediently handed it over. A chill travelled up his spine as Gawain dragged it around the wound – it tickled almost, or perhaps it was just the itch that made him shift a little. For as rough and strong Gawain’s hands were, he was gentle – surprisingly gentle even and the tension that had quickly coiled Lancelot tight unwound little by little as Gawain carefully cleaned around the cut. Luckily, it’d stopped bleeding as well.

“So how did you hold off the poison for so long?” he asked as he put the ruined rag away.

Lancelot glanced up and when he found that no one was paying attention to them, he looked back at Gawain. “Mithridatism,” he muttered in reply. 

“Are you cursing or trying your hand at spells?”

Lancelot managed a feeble smile. “I was fed a bit of venom for a long time.”

Gawain’s hands froze, and his face darkened with a frown. “Is that so?” he asked icily, and it defeated Lancelot’s meagre smile in a heartbeat. He suddenly crawled with the desire to pull away, but Gawain still held onto his wrist and that was enough to have him stay put.

The knight’s shoulders rose and fell with a heavy sigh, and he scrubbed a hand over his face; it was as if he thought he’d heard it all and yet the world still managed to surprise him. “At least Melle didn’t feed you monkshood,” he remarked with a wry smile. “The poetic twist – don’t know if I could find it in me to throttle an aspiring artist.”

Lancelot hummed darkly and looked away, down to where Gawain was slowly wrapping the linen around his arm – tight, but not too tight before securing it with a knot. The itch persisted and it took everything within him to not drag his nails over the bandage as he pulled his arm back.

“Your throat alright?” Gawain said and then he was already reaching up, knuckles gently touching beneath Lancelot’s chin. “Faya shared her stash I smell.” 

He tilted his head up the slightest as he hummed in reply. Gawain leaned in closer – so close that Lancelot could see the few grey strands in his beard and the pale scar above his right brow. His eyes were impossibly green – the same kind of green the forest sprouted in the spring when everything seemed so bright and vivid. 

“Gawain?” Bate called out, and then asked something in Sylvian.

The knight’s eyes didn’t leave his throat as he answered, still in common, “I’ll see to it later.” 

Bate shook his head, obviously dissatisfied with the answer and insisted, “We took care of it already.” 

Gawain breathed out heavily through his nose and turned around. Lifting his eyebrows, he replied with a long phrase in Sylvan – a string of lilting, undeniably mocking words that made the rest of the scavengers snicker and shake their heads as Bate’s cheeks took on a pink tint. He swore softly – a word Lancelot knew from all the times the healers had cleaned the wounds of a more lucid patient – and turned his attention back to the pot. 

Lancelot tried to ignore the way his heart wrung itself hard in his chest; he hoped whatever it was that they talked about wouldn’t be the fodder for another brawl later. Gawain turned back to him with a wry smile, focus falling back to the bruising on Lancelot’s throat. He reached out a hand again, fingers weightlessly brushing just above his collarbone – it didn’t hurt, but it sent a buzz through his entire body. He clenched his jaw shut and breathed in deeply through his nose, but it only brought more of that heady scent of sage in his lungs. 

His eyes followed the trail helplessly to the vulnerable hollow of Gawain’s neck. With another gentle gust of the wind, the teasing scent blended with the metallic smell of blood, and this time he couldn’t deny it was arousal that flared hot in his stomach. 

His mouth went dry, the bitter aftertaste of the potion the only thing grounding him as he pulled the blanket tighter around himself. He reminded himself that greed was a sin, but so were all the other things that made him who he was. His Fey nature, his pride, his anger and now it seemed his lust as well.

His breathing turned shallow – it didn’t feel like the air was enough in each slow breath, but he couldn’t exactly pant like a dog. Lancelot swallowed thickly as he tried his damndest to ignore Gawain’s surveying gaze, but when his fingers skimmed up beneath the hinge of his jaw goosebumps erupted over his body and it was impossible to not look at him. When the knight’s eyes lifted to lock with his own, he almost forgot to inhale at all.

“It’ll be worse tomorrow,” Gawain muttered, pulling his hand away. 

Lancelot barely caught himself before he would lean in to follow the elusive warmth. He nodded curtly, not trusting his tongue and managed a muted smile. In a desperate attempt to get himself under control, he clasped a hand over his bandaged arm, nails digging into the side of the cut – both getting to that damn itch and grounding himself through the pinch of pain simultaneously. 

“Perhaps you can convince Faya to share some of her stash with you again.” 

“Maybe,” Lancelot mumbled. 

Gawain looked like he was about to ask him something else, but then seemed to decide against it. Instead, he patted him on the shoulder and turned back to the fire. Thaid held up a weathered deck of cards, saying something in Sylvian and Gawain shook his head with a bright, blinding smile. Lancelot couldn’t find it in himself to look away; the cut on his arm stung beneath the palm of his hand, but it did nothing to the feeling that was taking root in him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation of what Gawain said to Bate: "Same way you took care of watching him? How is that fern doing, by the way? Not too bruised, I hope?"
> 
> Also, here is what Bate and Melle look like: <https://the-wicked-stories.tumblr.com/post/632868001258045440/original-fey-characters-from-wicked-heart-melle>


	7. War...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gore and violence ahead - please proceed with caution. If unsure, consult the updated tags ;)

“You awake over there?”

The warm, soft voice had Lancelot pry open one sleepy eye. He blinked slowly – once, twice, thrice, the world gradually sharpening with each blink. The crisp morning air smelled of campfire and rain, a muted scent matched by the bleak light that filtered through the red tree crown. Gawain sat no more than an arm’s length away, hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, and a blanket wrapped tight around his shoulders. Steam rose from the mug in his hand. A small, gentle smile tugged on his lips when their eyes met. 

Lancelot glanced briefly away and hummed darkly, a low sound cut short by the ache in his throat. He grimaced and pulled the blanket all the way up to his nose – mind, body and heart nowhere near ready to haul himself out of the bedroll. It’d been an unpleasant night – the wind had picked up and howled with such intensity that he’d woken up at least a dozen times, tossing and turning without ever being able to find peace. His body felt stiff and heavy enough for the ground to crack beneath him and send him straight to Hell, or perhaps it was he who would shatter into a thousand pieces to be kicked around like gravel. 

Luckily, Gawain spoke again before he could drown in self-misery.

“You slept at least a bit?” he asked, still just as quietly. Somewhere on the other end of the crackling fire, someone was snoring with such intensity that it was no surprise that the leaves were coming off early this year. 

Lancelot rubbed some of the sleep from his eyes and hummed again, lower this time. Gawain’s smile stretched wider as he brought the mug up to his lips and took a sip. It looked as if he’d been awake for hours already, eyes sparkling and spirits high. The mere sight of him was borderline exhausting. 

“Enough?”

“... hardly,” Lancelot mumbled, words coming out muffled through the blanket. He shifted slightly, toes stretching in his boots and shoulders sluggishly coiling up before deflating with a sigh.

“Huh, I never would have guessed,” Gawain said with a smirk, raising his brows pointedly as he took another swallow. 

It was like a jab to the gut. From one blink to the next, Lancelot became completely awake, throat protesting as he swallowed dryly. He pulled the blanket closer as if that would shield him from the passing wind—from that devilish smile. With the way he laid curled on his side, the fabric stretched like a taut canvas over his hips and shoulders, and that was small mercy given the way he could feel his pulse in his groin. 

He carefully smoothed a hand over his trousers beneath the blanket, adjusting them so that they wouldn’t dig in, but even that careful touch was enough to send a small lick of pleasure up his spine. His cock was hard and throbbing and desperate for touch, straining against the front lacing. Well, at least one stupid part of him was awake and ready for the day. 

“Want some tea?” Gawain held out the mug toward him; it smelled faintly of elderberries and lavender. 

“In a bit,” mumbled Lancelot as he carefully glanced around without moving his head all too much. From what he could see, they seemed to be the only ones awake, and he let out a sigh of relief. More taunting was the last thing he wanted right now.

Gawain sat the steaming mug aside for him and then he was reaching to the side, pulling up the messy bundle that Lancelot immediately recognised as his cloak. The dark, stained fabric was dotted with small, grey stitches where the biggest rip had been. 

“I mended your cloak,” Gawain said as he sat it down just before Lancelot. He inched down the blanket, hand reaching out and fingers brushing over the uneven stitches; the sleeve of his shirt rode up, revealing the bruises on his wrist. It was the one he landed badly on, but it was one of those cases where it looked worse than it felt – though he still felt the pull of aching muscles as he closed his fingers around the soft fabric, idly pulling the cloak a bit closer. 

“Thank you,” Lancelot said, voice low and husky from sleep as he glanced up at the knight. 

Gawain bowed his head with that warm, wry smile. “Can’t say it’s the prettiest stitching in the world, but it will have to do until we get back.”

Lancelot gently rubbed the fabric between his thumb and forefinger, feeling along the ridge of the small stitches. The cloak was made of good, costly fabric; Father had treated him to it as a reward for a good hunt. It would have been a shame to accidentally ruin it further if the tear caught on a stray branch. It was highly unlikely he would be able to find one like that now, stuck in the middle of nowhere with no coin in a camp full of people who barely had enough for themselves.

But now that wasn’t a problem. He didn’t realise that he was smiling until Gawain’s smile widened as he looked right back at him. The intense focus of green, steely eyes tugged at him demandingly, making the pulse between his legs beat with renewed vigour. 

All at once, a confusing tangle of guilt, shame and excitement flared up, making his stomach flutter and leaving him feverish and slightly breathless. What he wouldn’t do to get some release right now – it was a sinful thing, an impure thing but he wanted to be touched—he wanted Gawain. The mutinous thought had his heart hammer in his chest, the world rocking slightly as if right on cue and he couldn’t look at the man – not with such tainted thoughts filling his head. 

Lancelot still felt Gawain’s eyes on him even as he looked away and into the campfire; it burned bright and warm when he for once could do with some cold. Or anything that would drain the lust from his body. As luck would have it, not even his headache was as vivid as it usually was during the mornings, but he still tried to focus on that – on the pain. He distantly wondered if the sudden remission was another effect of the potion from yesterday.

It was truly a wonder to have remedies that potent, he thought wistfully before remembering he had the right to them as well now. Still, right now what he needed was a distraction, and with a slow, forceful exhale, he thought about how badly the cut still itched beneath the bandage; about how loud someone was still snoring. 

“Throat bruising is showing, I see,” Gawain remarked gently; both hands wrapped around the mug again as he nodded at him. 

“‘s fine,” murmured Lancelot and he pulled the cloak closer, hugging it to his midriff as he gingerly pushed himself up to sit. Even though the ground was softer than the floor he slept on back in the town, his body didn’t seem to agree. Thankfully, the angry pull in his back was enough to send his erection flagging. 

“And the arm?”

“‘s fine,” Lancelot mumbled again as he dragged a hand to comb his hair back, pushing a few stray locks from his face. 

Gawain smiled like he wasn't exactly convinced, but didn’t say anything else and simply passed him the mug. Lancelot took a careful sip; it tasted sweet, warming him heavenly from the inside out.

Feeling a little bit more alive – this time in the proper way – he took another sip, eyes darting around. Faya was shuffling quietly in her bedroll, stretching herself long, and she exchanged a quiet greeting with Bate who was blinking himself awake, his voice rough from sleep. Melle still seemed to be asleep though, and so did the twins. 

Now that Lancelot had a better check on who was rustling the leaves around them with their loud snoring, he saw that it was – quite surprisingly – Thaid’s brother Failbe. He was the quiet one of the two, but apparently what he didn’t utter when awake was obviously compensated for now. 

Lancelot averted his eyes from the others, looking up at Gawain instead.

“When do we start?”

“Soon. You have time to finish your tea,” Gawain said with a wave of his hand and pushed himself up. Warmed up and throat soothed by the honeyed drink, he watched how the knight went from one scavenger to the other, greeting them with enthusiasm that only the archer somewhat mirrored with her small, newly awoken smile. 

Along with the warmth, a certain sense of peace settled in Lancelot’s bones as he slowly finished the tea. On the branches above, the birds attracted by the crumbs from their dinner last night were twittering lively, and he allowed himself to listen to them for a bit while he scanned the forest around them. 

It was as if Melle’s attempt on his life was the culmination of a long wait. Now that all that tension that had been brewing since he’d arrived at the Fey camp had snapped, at last, Lancelot could breathe easier – well, as much as his bruised ribs and throat permitted. 

He let out an amused breath when Gawain pitilessly kicked the twins awake. Thaid loudly bemoaned his poor choices of ever agreeing to go with the Green Knight, while Failbe was quiet as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. His short trimmed hair stuck out like twigs in a bird nest and he glanced around in a slight daze, mouth hanging open with a drop of drool clinging to the corner of his lips. Still, children, Lancelot thought with something approaching fondness, but then his eyes followed Gawain who walked over to the last scavenger, and the smile slid off his face.

Melle’s morning hair matched Failbe as he sat up – white curls sticking out in all directions, but there was nothing innocent and friendly in his face. It was as if he woke up with that angry frown etched on it. Their eyes met for a moment, and Lancelot tensed again, quickly turning his focus back to Gawain instead. 

Despite knowing now that he could count on fair treatment from the knight, Lancelot was eager to get back to the town – to find himself on the more familiar ground where he could regroup. For as much as he wanted the matters to be gone with the wind after Melle’s attack, he knew that grudges like that didn’t disappear quickly. He doubted the Moonwing would try anything again – at least not during this mission, but Lancelot figured it would be safer back in town than unarmed in the woods. 

From what he’d seen the healers deal with, there were plenty of dangers roaming about that would be glad to skewer any Fey they found in the most brutal way possible. Some had come in with axe wounds – the handiwork of raiders presumably as the Ice King’s troops seemed to loom too close for comfort. Even though he hadn’t fought a raider himself before, rumours told stark tales about their battle-hardened way of living and ferocity. From what he had seen that one time he had accompanied Father to their camp, the northerners more than lived up to their reputation. Fighting a gang of them unarmed while still hurting was a challenge he wasn’t keen on pursuing. 

The sooner the scavengers were done, the sooner he could draw back to recover – so he wasted no time getting ready. Hastily finishing the last dredges of the tea, Lancelot put the mug away and shoved the cloak slightly to the side before untangling himself from the bedroll. In quick, efficient motions, he rolled everything up and pushed himself up, bedroll under one arm and cloak balled up under the other. 

He wondered distantly if vertigo would ever go away, or if it was cursed to stay with him until the end of time. It triggered so easily and always appeared like a bolt out of the blue. If he was given a chance to unwind, it could go away soon enough, and so he promised himself to take it easy in the endeavour to come – or at least, try to.

In the close distance, Goliath was lazily grazing on a patch of grass a bit away from the other horses, soft lips nibbling demurely at the long stems and ears perked forward. He didn’t look anything like the black behemoth that scared all the sheep in the paddock to the other end, and that thought brought a small smile to Lancelot’s lips. 

On his way, he reached for the clothes Thaid had hung up yesterday on a nearby branch; the white undershirt was a murky brown from where it fluttered in the wind next to the surcoat. He reached high and tugged both garments down from the branch, ignoring the tug in his ribs and breathed through the ache without a flinch. 

With his hands full, Lancelot walked the last few steps over to Goliath and unceremoniously dumped the bedroll on the ground and threw the cloak and clothes over the horse’s broad back. The stallion let out a long-suffering sigh but didn’t move more than to gently clip his ears, patiently waiting for Lancelot to finish using him as a table. He patted the horse on the neck in silent thanks before glancing around quickly, fingers idly picking at the collar of the green shirt. Once he saw how everyone was absorbed in their own chores, he shrugged off Gawain’s shirt; confident that no one would catch a glimpse of his back. 

His own clothes smelled strongly of smoke, but at least they were blissfully dry despite the dew beading the ground. A shiver knotted his skin tight as he pulled on the undershirt; the air was biting cold against his body, sore muscles tensing all over again and for a breath, the world rocked stronger. He scrubbed a hand over his forehead to deal with a particularly angry flare-up of his headache and momentarily steadied himself by resting a hand on Goliath’s back. 

He only noticed how warm Gawain’s green shirt was under his hand when the headache calmed a few moments later. He needed to give it back, and for some reason, that thought rubbed him the wrong way. There was no reason at all to sulk about returning what wasn’t his, he told himself firmly as his fingers squeezed around the fabric and slowly pulled it off Goliath. 

He folded it carefully, but all his admonitions did nothing to soothe the wistful tug in his stomach. A soft sigh escaped past his lips as he realised how screwed he was – how he admired the knight in a way that perhaps was neither timely nor appropriate. One part of him hoped it was just his injuries softening him this way – that the fight, the recovery and the stress of being out on the field fuddled with his mind, his emotions. It could have played a trick on him, couldn’t it..?

With a shaky exhale, he expelled those forbidden thoughts from his mind. The folded up shirt was cast upon Goliath’s back once more before he reached for the surcoat and pulled it on. It was with clumsy fingers that he rethreaded the lacing he’d pulled out yesterday all the way down his side. 

“You ready?”

Gawain’s voice had him look up quickly from where he was threading the cord through the last few holes. “Almost,” he replied as he reached for the green, folded shirt and chucked it his way. Gawain caught it with ease and flashed him a brief, but dazzling smile. 

Lancelot wanted to avert his eyes, but the knight glanced away first, looking at the other scavengers who were busy rolling up their bedrolls and putting on their cloaks. He whistled loudly – Lancelot noted it was an imitation of birdsong, which would explain why they’d never heard the Fey coming before when they were still on opposite sides of the war. 

The others perked up as if stung, their quick reaction revealing how deeply ingrained the habit was to use such signals even when there was no apparent threat nearby. Realising that the whistle was the cue to get going, Lancelot buckled on his cloak, and before long, the scavengers set off into the woods. Beams of daylight began filtering through the thick, grey clouds, and for now, the prospect of rain seemed like a distant thing. 

Last night’s rain had left the forest awash with earthy, fragrant smells of the plants and damp earth. Despite how things had turned out yesterday, the fact that he’d gotten the chance to stay behind meant that he hadn’t caught that cold as he initially feared; without a runny nose, it was child’s play to sniff out the herbs needed.

It felt strange to be followed once again. He’d been ignored and overlooked and avoided to no end ever since he’d joined the Fey side, and to suddenly wade through the thicket with the rest of them like hounds at his heel was bizarre. Not in a bad way, but not in a good one either. If he made an abrupt halt, he had one scavenger or another almost breathe down his neck – a thing that quickened his steps and made him less inclined to stop. At least his tail was one man short with Bate having stayed behind to guard their horses. 

They didn’t have to walk far to find the first plants. Gawain and Melle kept watch while the rest of them collected the flowers and the leaves. The Red Brothers hadn’t exactly believed in the healing properties of plants and herbs—hadn’t believed in much else than the cures of the almighty God. But from time to time they had still ventured into the forest to resupply the nuns, especially after the whole debacle with Fey fraternisers had come to light. During those few forays, the procedure had been simple: he’d find and point, and that had been it.

Now though, where he would loiter in the background while others worked, Faya gestured for him to come closer where she sat crouched next to a crevice, one hand reaching deep into the narrow hollow. She showed both him and the twins how to cut the stems and wrap the leaves to ensure the plant survived a trip back in the best condition. 

Oddly intrigued by her tricks, Lancelot watched closely. When the Paladins had picked the herbs, they’d simply yanked them out of the ground as if they were pulling weeds growing between cobblestone. Many of them had withered into the dark, shrivelled up pieces by the time they’d arrived back to camp. 

The only time he’d encountered a Fey remedy was in Yvoire Abbey and while the poor bastard had died anyway, whatever they’d coated on his wounds had stopped the bleeding on the outside in a matter of minutes. The abbess had confessed to the source of the medication during the interrogation, and Lancelot remembered how furious Father had been; disgusted and enraged and proclaiming it to be poison to the soul if not to the body. 

That hadn’t stopped Lancelot from taking a furtive sniff of the paste leftover in the bowl; it’d smelled bitter and earthy, and from what he could puzzle out, contained nothing but the most harmless herbs found in anyone’s garden. He’d wondered then how grinding nature’s gifts together to craft something so potent that could save lives was malicious, but had had no time to find the answer.

Now that he’d gotten a look at their potions first-hand, he wondered if there was some magic behind them after all. Pym and Polly had muttered that there wasn’t, but he was still not convinced. While they didn’t let him do anything else but prepare the ingredients, he hoped that one day they’d let him close enough to see the actual brewing process. 

After Faya had finished her demonstration, they were let loose on their own to pluck and gather. It took them a while to clear out the spot, and then it was onto the next place, following another elusive trail that hung like a thread in the air. 

A couple hours later and their sacks were brimming over with neat bundles of herbs, and the scavengers cheered up significantly, patting each other on the back with bright grins. Even the quiet Failbe offered him a grateful nod.

On the way back, the twins were busy bickering about who’d collected the most, their voices growing more and more agitating until they finally decided to ask Gawain. To their dismay, the man just rolled his eyes and informed them that there was very little honour in merely shooting an arrow if the animal was already tracked and held down for you. 

The twins looked at Gawain indignantly, drawing a small smile onto Lancelot’s lips. He glanced at the knight, meeting his amused gaze and for once not feeling the need to avert his eyes. When Gawain gave him a small approving nod, there it was again, that warm feeling that spread in his chest, hesitant like the bleak sunlight rays, but still unmistakably there. That small inkling of hope that perhaps he could carve out a place for himself with Fey despite his past was so sudden, it left him almost breathless. 

The wind rustled loudly in the trees and clawed at their clothes with enough zeal to pull down their hoods. Lancelot shot up a hand, catching the hood before it could fall onto his shoulders. The gust of wind brought more than just a cold caress – notes of something that didn’t belong in the woods. His hopeful musings vanished as quickly as they’d appeared and he frowned as he slowed down, head slowly turning to the north wind as he tried to decipher what it was.

Around him, the forest was calm. The scavenger party was pulling away, muffled footsteps and snapping twigs inching away little by little. Birdsong coupled with the wind rustling in the trees, and the wind was coming at them again, strong and cold and— 

—the smell of sword oil and sweat clung at its tail. 

His eyes widened. The hair at the back of his neck rose as his gaze darted between the wide willow trunks. As he looked back at the group, he realised that it wasn’t them stepping on any twigs – the trekked path beneath their feet was barren and clean. 

“Gawain!” he called out as low as he could, to avoid alerting whoever it was in the forest. 

The knight stopped dead in his tracks and spun around with a severe frown on his face.

Lancelot gestured to where the wind had pulled from. “Someone is here,” he said in an urgent, hushed voice. 

The others exchanged worried glances, while Gawain strode toward him in long steps, hand resting on the pommel of his sword and there was nothing merciful about his demeanour. 

“How do you  _ know—” _

—an arrow wheezed right past his face. Lancelot flinched back, taking cover behind the nearest tree and when he looked up, he saw that Gawain had done the same.

A half a dozen more arrows swooshed by. Lancelot watched how the scavengers scrambled to hide behind the trees, abandoning the sacks on the narrow path, and crouched down, swirling patterns of green running up their arms and necks. He watched how Thaid dragged Failbe along with such force that the quiet twin tripped over a sack and fell. 

Between one blink and the next, an arrow pierced through his shoulder. 

A short, angry cry of anguish echoed in the forest. Thaid reached out quickly and snapped the arrow in two, bright red blood gushing over his fingers as he dragged his brother up and away, behind the cover of an old oak. 

Lancelot tore his eyes away and glanced at Gawain. Barely a couple dozen steps were separating them, but he had neither weapons nor armour for it to be a sound idea to cross the distance. Still, if he didn’t move he was going to end up with a hole in him anyway as the tree he huddled behind was thin as a straw. 

His eyes met Gawain’s, and the knight gave him a curt nod. He’d already taken the bow off his back and was just notching an arrow. Lancelot braced himself, realising it was now or never as he rolled his shoulders and in the next instant, he lunged forward. Three enemy arrows sailed through the air – he saw the pale feathers of one pass just before his eyes, but by then he was already rolling. Swiftly, he shot up, catching a glimpse of Gawain who was leaning out of cover and fired three arrows in quick succession at the attackers. 

Lancelot sprung into cover next to the man. Their shoulders rubbed together as they hid behind the oak. His entire body felt on fire from exertion; shoulders heaving by each deep breath, but at least his bruised ribs didn’t decide to make themselves known. He cautiously glanced out of their cover, eyes riveting to the trees from under which the arrows came – a solid fifty steps remained between them. 

He saw a shift behind one of the trunks. A flutter of leaves next to the other. Then just a bit to the right, and behind it, and to the left there was— _ fucking hell. _

“How many?” asked Gawain.

Lancelot leaned back and looked at him. “No less than half a dozen,” he replied grimly. 

Gawain cussed under his breath, and then he was looking away; to the twins who sat one tree over to their right. Both looked up at them with wide, frightened eyes as Thaid pressed a bloodied rag around where the arrow still stuck out. Failbe was ghostly white, body trembling where he sat slumped against the oak. 

A twig snapped – it was close, way too close, and Lancelot promptly peeked out of cover once more. Now the assailants were more than just shadows passing behind trees, and they were definitely more than half a dozen. 

One of them peeked from behind the branchy bush, arrowhead gleaming in the sun. Lancelot opened his mouth, ready to shout out a warning but in the next blink, the archer fell backwards. Two green-feathered Fey arrows had pierced his throat. 

Lancelot leaned back, only to see that Gawain was doing the same. He was already pulling another arrow from the quiver at his hip. The knight wasn’t looking at him, but at the others who were taking cover. 

“Faya!” he barked out, _ “ewch i Bate!” _

She glanced their way, but in the next moment, she was already pushing herself away from cover. There was a soft rustle of leaves as she dashed away, but her sudden movement was immediately noticed by the enemy archers who spared little time firing another bunch of arrows their way. 

Gawain was quick to answer, and this time Melle joined him as well. Lancelot peeked out of cover and saw how their arrows found their targets, sprays of crimson shooting through the air in their wakes. The huge, almost bear-like men fell like logs, crushing through the shrubbery with a deafening rustle and startling the birds. At a distance, they didn’t stand a chance against Fey, but they were closing fast, barely thirty steps away now, though the second round of arrows made them fall back a bit. 

Whoever they were, they weren’t anyone who the scavengers wanted to reason with. Shooting first and asking questions later rarely meant they were looking to resolve things the peaceful way even if they were to wave the closest pale fabric they had on hand. His eyes quickly searched the treeline and caught a glimpse of the attackers’ faces; blue ink patterns sprawled over their foreheads and cheeks.

They were the Ice King’s raiders. 

An icy ball of dread settled in his stomach. Three of them were down, he thought – they could perhaps fight the rest off without suffering any losses. Gawain was an expert swordsman and…

Lancelot leaned back behind cover, nose itching with another scent of—of sword oil and sweat. He glanced in the direction where Faya had taken off and all at once, it dawned on him. 

“There are more—they are going to surround us,” he warned, eyes settling on Gawain for a brief moment. One tree over, he accidentally met Melle’s eyes for a fleeting second but quickly looked away, back at the knight. The question hung in the air even though not a word had been said, and Lancelot could feel it in his bones that Gawain knew what was about to come out of his mouth. 

“Give me a sword,” he said without the slightest waver. 

There was a flicker of hesitation on the man’s face; a moment where it looked like he would reject, but then he bowed his head once. He gestured abruptly toward Thaid and Failbe who were watching them warily from under the other tree. It took another encouraging nod before Thaid unsheathed his sword and awkwardly threw it toward Lancelot before leaning back down to continue putting pressure on his brother’s wound. 

Lancelot dropped to his knees and picked up the sword before quickly pushing himself up, back coming to press against the tree as his knuckles turned white around the grip. Each and every approaching step was loud and only growing louder – the enemy was moving closer, but the feeling of the rough hilt digging into the palm of his hand made the insistent roar of fear in his ears subside at once. There wasn’t even the sore pull of battered muscles vexing him – instead, the cold, clear emptiness took over, the one that peeled away all the emotions and left his mind, body and soul geared for battle. 

From the sound of the footsteps, at least four more raiders were coming from the other side. The shrubbery made it impossible to figure out exactly how many, but what was more important was that they were close – he could sense it.

He breathed in deeply, chin coming to tilt up as he shot a quick look at Gawain. “I’ll take the newcomers.” 

As he watched Gawain’s eyebrows quirk up in surprise, Lancelot realised how easily he slipped into the habitual way of being the one in command. Fortunately, the knight merely bowed his head instead of taking to words before he turned around, face hardening once more as his eyes riveted to his side of the battlefield. 

“Draw your brother’s sword,” Lancelot told Thaid who looked around – eyes wide and his face pale. It took a moment for him to slowly replace his bloodied hands with Failbe’s before he pushed himself up, awkwardly pulling out the short sword.

The footsteps became quicker and quicker, and then there was a mighty roar — the raiders broke through the shrubbery with their weapons high. One–two– _ three—  _

—in the corner of his eye, he saw how Thaid backed away, sword coming down rather than up. 

Lancelot pushed himself away from the tree, sidestepping to dodge the first strike, and thrust the sword under the first raider’s ribs. The man screamed bloody murder, specks of spit flying through the air and onto Lancelot’s face. He drew back, yanking the blade out and dodged to the side for the next attack as the first man sunk toward the ground with a snarling gurgle. 

The second attacker swung the wide axe over his head, but Lancelot parried easily. The axe fell down in a heavy arch, whistling right past his leg and into the thick root of the tree with a hollow sound. Their eyes met for a beat, fear written clearly across the raider’s face as the man peered up at him. 

Lancelot swung the blade, taking his head clean off his shoulders. 

Before it even bounced against the ground, there was a sharp exhale to the side – a shift of air behind him. The hair at the back of his neck rose anew, and he dove down out of instinct, hauling himself to the side and narrowly avoiding the strike. He struck out wide, slashing the third raider clean above the knees. 

The man stumbled – sword going one way and legs the other. It was enough for Lancelot to strike the blade to the side and leap closer, fist coming to collide against the attacker’s face. Pain exploded up his arm, the edges of his vision blackening as he stumbled back a few steps, his entire arm alight with sharp, hot ache. 

Distracted by it, he didn’t realise that the attacker was already charging him again. Lancelot pulled up his sword to parry, vision still cut in half and pain swimming through his system, only worsened by the strain of deflecting the heavy blows. He didn’t have much strength behind the counter-attacks, swords clashing loudly as the attacker pushed him back–back– _ back  _ until his back hit the tree so hard that it knocked the wind out of his lungs. 

He kicked out, foot coming to land perfectly on the man’s knee.

The attacker froze— 

—and then he dropped like a stone.

Behind him stood Thaid, the tip of his sword covered in blood. 

Lancelot narrowly managed to step to the side as the man sank to the ground, slumping awkwardly against the tree. Thaid trembled in his shoes, breathing uneven and ragged as he stared down the man with wide, wild eyes. All at once, Lancelot realised that may very well have been his first kill this up close. 

The moment lasted forever it seemed, but then a fourth raider appeared like a charging bull. Thaid stumbled back, blinking in shock at the huge man with a face almost entirely blue from the ink, his sword coming up high— 

—Lancelot threw his sword up, deflecting the blow. The pain burned through his system once more as he shoved the man back with such intensity that they both lost their footing, falling briefly apart. 

The raider leapt nimbly back, whirling his sword once and baring his teeth in a frenzied snarl. Breathing heavily, Lancelot straightened and took a step to stand in between Thaid and the attacker.

For a blink, their eyes met – a flicker of confusion pulled on the man’s face as he sank lower in his stance, chest puffed up and shoulders widened. Lancelot didn’t wait for him to make a connection, using the distraction to his advantage and struck first. The man parried; Lancelot feinted his next attack, and then again, gaining the opening to quickly slash the man over the sword arm. 

And then in one brutal, vicious thrust, he sank the steel through his stomach. The man sank down to his knees as Lancelot yanked out the blade, slamming his boot into the man’s gut to further help him in the way down. 

The sound of swords clashing had him spinning around, and he saw that Thaid had recovered enough to engage with one of the raiders, drawing him away from Gawain. The knight still fought two of them at once, trying to protect Failbe who had managed to get up and now stood braced against the oak, clutching a knife in his bloodied fingers and sluggishly pressing the rag where the arrow had struck him. 

There was no chance in Hell he would last long. Not when a raider almost twice his height sprung toward him with a gleeful, bloodthirsty roar. Lancelot leapt forward, still being five long steps away as he watched how the boy stumbled to the side, avoiding a blow that would have effortlessly taken off his head.

He shoved the raider back, trapping him against the tree. The sword sank into his gut like a knife through butter, but unlike the rest, this one still had fight in him. The man struggled against him, but Lancelot quickly yanked the dagger from his belt and jammed it into his neck. Before he could watch that one choke on his own blood, there were two more on him. 

They charged simultaneously and in a split-second decision, he parried the left one. He sidestepped, slashed and brought down one of them with a lucky strike over the chest. The second attacker swung far and wide, sending Lancelot stumbling backwards – he quickly propped himself up on his elbow, pushing up on his side, but not before the second strike was already incoming.

He didn’t raise his sword up in time, and all at once, it was as if time slowed. He watched in minute detail how the sharp edge of the attacker’s sword ripped through the surcoat as it carved its way over his side – closely following the awkward stitching from whoever had died in these clothes before. He didn’t feel a thing though, not even as he watched how blood welled through the cut. 

The attacker glared down at him with a wicked smile...

… only for it to hollow out in the next moment.

Lancelot barely saw anything but a bright flash of metal before a throwing knife had lodged itself in the man’s right eye. He tumbled forward, and Lancelot scrambled to the side to avoid being crushed, quickly pushing himself up with a hand pressed against the wound. 

In the haste of things, the only thing he saw was Melle turn away to parry a strike. It was one of the few raiders still standing, but the Moonwing wasn’t doing too hot either. The injury resolutely pushed to the back of his mind, Lancelot tried to reach him, but Gawain was there first, rushing past him and taking down the last attacker like a battering ram. 

The raider let out one last harrowing snarl before the knight’s dagger pushed its way in his throat. After that, the silence grew impossibly loud – deafening almost. After all the clamour, the clang of steel, the shouts, the grunts, the thuds of bodies falling, and now there was the sound of their heaving breaths as they all looked at each other. 

Everyone was still standing, he realised. Failbe was pale as death but still conscious, even managing a weak smile at his brother who smiled back before slowly sinking to the ground. There was a long, nasty gash across his chest, and blood seeped through his fingers like water in a rippling creek. 

Lancelot moved closer to him without a thought, but Melle was already there in their space, kneeling next to the boy and clasping his shoulder to keep him upright. With a deep, worried frown, the Moonwing inspected the gash, and his lips thinned. He tore the hem of Thaid’s shirt off without a word and hastily made a makeshift bandage; the rest of the bloodied rag tossed to the side. 

Melle’s white hair was tinted red; there was a cut above his brow and on his cheek, but otherwise, he looked unharmed. It was when Lancelot turned to Gawain that panic erupted within him like a mirror shattering. The knight’s whole face was covered in blood from a nasty gash that stretched across his forehead; the single thing that defused the worry within Lancelot was the fact that Gawain swore loudly the moment after – when he tossed the dagger to the side as his hand came back to help press against his Failbe's wound. He probably wouldn’t keel over himself, then.

Lancelot swallowed drily, grip slowly growing lax around the sword. His entire body was humming from the warrior’s rush; loud and intense and holding everything else at bay. He distantly acknowledged the sting beneath his hand—from the cut; he slowly pried his hand away, blood welling out once more, but it didn’t look too deep. It was just a scratch, he told himself as he glanced up at Gawain. 

“Pray that was all of them,” the knight said severely as he swept a hand over his brow, wiping away some blood. Under the thin rivulets of blood running down his cheekbones, there was a flush of colour as he breathed heavily and looked around, eyes gleaming wildly. At once, the violent longing under Lancelot’s skin latched greedily at the chip in his restraint, lust coiling in his stomach once more for a fleeting moment. 

Slowly, he trotted closer while still clutching the wound, peering around the forest as well. He breathed in deeply through his nose, straining all his senses one by one to look for any more raiders that might still be lurking nearby. The air was thick with the smell of them, now only bound by the sharp scent of blood. 

“Are there more?” Gawain asked demandingly, steely eyes meeting Lancelot’s.

He shook his head, and just like that, the knight lost some of that wild gleam in his gaze. His shoulders rose and fell with a heavy sigh, and as he scrubbed a hand over his face, he smeared the blood even more. The cut on his brow didn’t look deep; most facial wounds had the tendency to bleed profusely after all.

“Are you alright?” Gawain nodded at where he was clutching his side, calming down an inch.

“It’s nothing,” Lancelot replied flatly. 

Gawain looked up at him, lips pursed in a tight line and for a second, it looked like he wanted to press further. But instead, he gave him a tense nod and ordered, “I’ll run ahead and check on the camp. Get the boys there as well.” 

Lancelot nodded stiffly as he gazed over the fallen men around them – a couple twitched, not entirely gone just yet. He peered up at Gawain, only to see that the man was moving away quickly – taking off so quick that he scared a bunch of ravens from their branches. 

“Wait—Gawain—Gawain!” 

What the hell was he supposed to do with the raiders that were still alive? 

The ravens soared into the air with rasping cries, and for a short while, Lancelot watched them in a haze. Before long, Gawain was out of sight and with that, the strain from the battle slowly made itself known. The sword in his hand felt like the heaviest thing in the world, and he sluggishly stuck it into the ground, putting his weight on it. 

It didn’t hold him for long though, and instead, he slowly walked closer to where the twins and Melle were, carefully coming to lean against the tree. The edges of his vision were creeping back, slowly but surely. 

He could feel the blood trickle down his back. The pinch in his ribs was returning, gaining strength by each breath. His sleeve felt wet, the fabric blotched dark where yesterday’s cut was hidden beneath; there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that he’d managed to tear the wound open. It was just a scratch, he thought again as he swallowed once more, tasting that coppery taste of blood; Lancelot wasn’t sure if it was even his own. 

No one said anything as Melle patched the brothers up with what little he had available. It was enough to give him a short moment to recover. One of the fallen raiders stared at him from a close distance, blinking slowly from where he laid slumped on the ground with his throat open. Lancelot averted his gaze, fingers coming to tighten around the grip once more. The only merciful thing to do would be to put them out of their misery. 

“Can you hear them?” Melle asked reluctantly, voice low as if he was afraid to break the silence. 

Lancelot glanced around them, perking his senses up, but then shook his head. The sound of the battle carried far, he probably would have heard it if the raiders would’ve caught up with Faya or if Gawain had caught up with any raiders. They weren’t that far away from the camp, after all. 

“No,” he rasped out and pushed off the tree, eyes settling on the sacks they’d dropped further away, “it must be over there as well.”

Lancelot walked over to the bags on wobbly legs, spying his surroundings cautiously as he reached for the first bag. It wasn’t the weight as much as the pain that bothered him – it was returning with a vengeance and Melle must have seen him struggle because he was already in his space so suddenly that Lancelot startled. The Moonwing pushed him to the side and tore the sack out of his hand, slinging it on his own shoulder. 

“Leave it,” he said darky, face unreadable when Lancelot glanced at him with a frown.

“Faya might need it.”

“Well, I’ll give it to her. Move—we need to get back, and you – you need to bind that wound.” 

With a deepening frown, Lancelot pulled back his hand from where he was already reaching for the next sack; hand coming to press against the gash once more. Something was going on – something he couldn’t put his finger on, but deep down, he knew that the man was right. With the twins injured, they needed to get back sooner rather than later. They could come back for the sacks later. 

Lancelot gave a delayed nod in reply. He searched Melle’s face for any indication of what could be the reason for such a change in disposition.

Perhaps Melle noticed it because after a short pause he huffed and muttered under his breath, “If you faint and I have to listen to Gawain gush about how important you are,  _ again _ , I am going to kill myself.”

With that, he turned sharply around and walked back to the twins. For a moment, he watched him go, but then he heard a quiet, gurgling inhale and Lancelot glanced away, eyes falling at once at the raider who laid just a couple of steps away. His eyelashes fluttered slowly, blood still pooling on the leaves from the slit on his throat. 

A twig snapped beneath his boots as he took a slow, measured step closer. The silence thickened, only tested by Failbe’s ragged breathing further away – Melle ripped the hem of his cloak, bandaging him up further. There was still some time, Lancelot thought as he paused briefly.

The raider’s dull, grey eyes met his. His knuckles whitened against the grip, the rough leather digging into the palm of his hands once more. 

Lancelot spared the fallen raiders one last look before he began putting them out of their misery, one by one. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Lancelot went full-on Sparta on that rider, he really did.  
> ... also, guess the next chapter's name :D


	8. ... and Thread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A massive thank you to Lucrethia who made sure that we didn't butcher the French language in this one. 
> 
> You will encounter a couple of french lines in this chapter, but we've made so that you can hover the cursor above the underlined text and it'll show you the translation -- same goes if you're on mobile, you should be able to just click on it and the English translation will be revealed. :) However, if it doesn't work we have the translations in the endnote below. 
> 
> Lastly, this chapter is a bit more gruesome than the last so t(h)read with caution! If it becomes too much, we have a quick summary of what goes down in the chapter down in the endnote. We also decided to add "Slow burn" as a tag since this story has grown a lot since we first started posting.

The sun was closing in on zenith and for the first time in what felt like forever, a glimpse of cerulean sky peeked through the heavy clouds. The sound of birdsong and wind rustling in the flaming tree crowns forged a deceiving sense of calm that didn’t quite match the scene. 

A dagger stuck out of a raider’s back like a standard of the victorious army; a string of emerald-painted beads that marked it as a Fey one wrapped around the angular pommel. Beneath the grand oak that had kept them dry through the night, bodies now littered the ground. After Gawain had caught up with the raiders, seven more of them had met their end on Fey swords today. The reek was already oozing off the corpses; the stench of piss and shit and blood, a sickening bouquet that made him scrunch his nose . 

From where Lancelot stood guard at the edge of the clearing, he watched as Gawain and Bate dragged the bodies into a pile, ready to cover them with brushwood. They took the last raider by the arms, began to pull jointly on the count of three, and in the next moment, the lower body didn’t quite catch up with the rest; blood and guts spilt out, steam rising in the chilly air. 

Lancelot’s stomach lurched at the scent and his knuckles turned white on the sword hilt, sprained wrist protesting weakly. He let out a shaky breath and leaned a bit heavier against the birch behind him. Such sights were hardly a bother—he was no stranger to gore—but the sheer abruptness of it all caught even him off-guard. The cold, calm silence that had overtaken him in the fight was gone and in the aftermath, it still didn’t feel like he’d caught his breath. 

The way back from the ambush site had been more strenuous than he’d liked to confess – even though Failbe was almost two heads shorter than him, the boy weighed more than a carriage full of turnips. Without wheels. He’d stumbled over every other root and branch as they’d made their way back, clinging first to Melle and then to Lancelot as if he’d feared they would dump him in the forest and never look back. His brother, though he’d fared a bit better, had still been too out of it to lend them a hand, and as they’d hurried back, they’d had to call out for him every once in a while as if he was a dog ready to wander astray.

Luckily, they had recovered a bit since then. As Lancelot glanced over to the campfire, he saw some colour had returned to their faces where they sat under the oak huddled close to each other – Faya had bandaged them up with what little she had, wrapping them as if they were made out of glass. Her face was a blank canvas, lips pressed into a tight line, but as he watched her down a cup of tea, it sure looked like she wished for something stronger. Distress coloured every aspect of her and the sheer intensity of her scowl made it all the more compelling for Lancelot to ignore the wound on his side. The last thing he wanted was to be more of a bother, to fuss over something that wasn’t even that big of a deal. 

Still, the gash on his side ached fiercely every time he breathed in. Sweat pooled under his armpits and his grip felt clammy around the sword; he’d even shrugged off his cloak in a half-hearted attempt to cool off. His body hummed with the slowly withdrawing warrior’s rush, blood still coursing in that loud, drumming beat in his ears. He was sore and tender in more places than he wasn’t, but he pushed it out of his mind, jaw clenching tight as he took another carefully measured breath. It was nothing more than a scratch. Nothing more than a scratch. 

“Faya, Melle—kill the fire,” Gawain called low as he wiped his hands on his trousers, the torn-apart raider finally disposed off, “and go get the loot.” 

They obliged with nothing but curt nods. Faya pushed herself up, throwing the last remains of her tea into the fire. A puff of smoke sizzled from the flames, quickly suffocated by the dirt kicked onto it by Melle. The scouts picked up their bows and in a blink, they melted into the speckled shades, so light on their feet even Lancelot soon lost track of their steps. 

Casting another glance at the tree line, he listened closely for a moment and found nothing but the chirping of birds and the distant drum of a woodpecker. Reassured by the lasting calm, he gingerly lowered himself onto a nearby boulder. In the corner of his eye, a red mark adorned the white, birch trunk; and when he pressed a hand to his side again, clothes damp against the palm of his hand, he realised it was where he’d leaned against the tree. 

He leaned a little to the side, sword coming to rest against his knee, to gently prod at the wound, and this time around his jaw snapped shut so tight his teeth hurt. The rag Melle had passed him on the way back was still keeping everything in place but it was soaked. A distant part of him realised that he needed to change it sooner rather than later, but he’d heard Faya swear over how she’d almost run out of linen for the bandages after she’d patched up the twins.

Studiously ignoring the pain, he stole another look at Bate and Gawain who had moved further away, to the very edge of the clearing. The brushwood they brought was thrown over the pile of bodies and now – now the men seemed to be in disagreement, judging by the scowls they wore.

Between the order to remain vigilant and the pain, Lancelot couldn’t abandon his watch for long enough to hear what they spoke so hushedly about. There was something in Gawain’s hands that he gestured wildly with as he spoke – it looked like parchment, a map perhaps. But when they’d packed their meagre saddlebags, Lancelot couldn’t remember that Gawain had bothered bringing something like that along. 

Naturally, the more he tried to tell himself that it wasn’t his concern, the harder it was to push it out of his mind. With a slight frown, he scratched the wound from yesterday, absent-mindedly scraping a fingernail on the side of the bandage. It was loose from having to rewrap it himself after the fight, but at least it wasn’t bleeding anymore. 

He glanced over to where the twins still sat quietly next to the now unlit campfire and spied over their shoulder at every suspicious rustle – too high-strung to let their guards down. They had every reason to – the lingering smell of smoke travelled easily with the wind and they could only hope that any other foes who might be looming closeby wouldn’t catch a whiff of their whereabouts. 

But his eyes kept wandering back to the men and before he knew it, Gawain glanced his way, freezing mid-sentence. When the frown darkened his face, Lancelot averted his gaze at once, focusing on the blood on his hands; it was dried up in the furrows of his knuckles, beneath his fingernails. The bruising from his sprained wrist was stretching down red and angry to the back of his hand; skin puffed up and tender after he’d slammed his fist into that raider. 

The sound of approaching footsteps coiled him tight; in the corner of his eye, he saw the bloodied fabric of Gawain’s trousers as he stopped right next to him. When Lancelot heard him clear his throat, he swallowed dryly and reluctantly turned his way to meet the livid green eyes. The blood on the knight’s face was flaking above his brow, a grim frame to his features; the sight of it sent a shiver down his back. 

“Any sign of trouble?” Gawain asked flatly. The very air around him was heavy with tension. Lancelot couldn’t remember ever seeing him like this – simmering with quiet anger, restrained and reserved in a way that made the hair at the back of Lancelot’s neck stand straight. 

Lancelot closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, grimacing through the pain as he tried to pick up anything amiss. Sensing nothing but a couple of deer further ahead, he shook his head. 

Gawain heaved a relieved sigh. He scratched his beard and for a moment, Lancelot thought he would turn on his heel and walk away, but as he looked up at him, he found the knight peering down at him once more. 

“Is that your blood?” 

The ice in his tone froze the blood in Lancelot’s veins. He didn’t have to look down to know that there was a dark stain on his surcoat. Bigger than his hand by far, smeared out and smudged from his clumsy attempts to stem the bleeding. 

“That doesn’t look like nothing – let me see,” Gawain said with the same stern tone when Lancelot didn’t give a quick enough reply. He moved closer, coming down on one knee to take a closer look; the smell of blood and sweat hitting Lancelot straight in the face. Caught unaware, he breathed his head full of it as Gawain raised a hand, mindful fingers peeling apart the tear in his clothes to peek at the wound. Strange, he thought; there was barely a faint hint of sage left, drowned under the sharp, pungent odour of henbane.

Drawing back ever so slightly back, Lancelot tried to keep his breath shallow and ignore that treacherous scent tickling his nose. The residual frenzy from the fight would be all too happy to latch onto it and twist his thoughts again. Keeping his face carefully blank, he watched how Gawain’s eyes fell to half-mast as he inspected the wound; there was blood even on his lashes, a reddish tint right at the end. 

Lancelot flinched when Gawain pulled at the rag, breath getting stuck in his throat at the bizarre, tickling sensation. It hurt in that sharp, nauseating way that made the world rock dangerously again. His stomach agreed even less at the sight of seeing the rag in Gawain’s hand, wet and dark; he felt the blood pool anew from the reopened gash. 

“Ceridwen's cunt, Ashman – here, keep the pressure on it,” Gawain heaved a deep breath, gaze razor-sharp and deadly as their eyes met. He brought his hand up against the wound, calloused palm pressing to the back of his hand. “Seems I might need to stitch up more than your cloak.” 

“It’s a scratch.”

“You’re pale as a ghost – it needs stitching,” he said. “You forgot to tell Faya about this before she left, or what?” 

“It’s a  _ scratch.” _

“It’s a scratch that needs stitching then,” Gawain countered sharply, voice dangerously low. The words harboured concern, but between his steely glare and squared shoulders, it sounded like a threat. 

Lancelot looked away first, stomach twisted in knots and heart stampeding in his chest. His tongue was a leaden weight in his mouth, but the desire to speak up still crawled right beneath the surface; it irked him how the man had acted as if he hadn’t survived far worse. 

Just when he thought Gawain couldn’t come any closer, he reached for the small bowknot that sat on Lancelot’s hip; a knot of black string that kept the side lacing of his surcoat from unravelling. 

Lancelot made the grave mistake of looking up as Gawain tugged hard and quick. The sound of the string getting pulled out of its loops felt like the loudest thing in the world. Despite their roughness, his fingers moved with finesse – as if he’d helped someone out of their clothes a thousand times before.

It was like staring into the sun – Lancelot should have known better than to get lost in those green, unforgiving eyes, but he did it anyway, the scent of henbane crawling in his lungs on a deeper inhale. His body hummed as if still in a fight, alert and alive and awake; it was as if the world had narrowed down to just them. The feather-light touch of Gawain's fingers worked higher and higher, his other hand gently nudging his elbow up so that he could reach the last of the loops. He helped him off with the surcoat, and it fell with a wet sound against the ground. 

Perhaps it wasn’t a scratch.

“Keep pressing at that wound,” Gawain said and then he was leaning to the side – back to where his cloak laid draped over the saddlebags. He pulled them close, quickly unclasped them, and then he took that thing—that parchment from behind his belt and shoved into the bag.

“Is that a map?” Lancelot asked carefully.

“Yes,” Gawain replied without looking up.

“Of what?”

Gawain pulled out a green shirt — the same one from before — and huffed, smile lopsided and not reaching all the way to his eyes as he glanced up at Lancelot. “Keep your magic nose out of it,” he cautioned.

The words hurt in a way he didn’t expect it to, but Lancelot swallowed the bitterness and turned away in silence. There was nothing calm about Gawain; a storm raged behind his eyes, cracking the mask of patience bit by bit, and it promised trouble if he pushed any more.

Gawain tossed the shirt to the side and dug deeper into the saddlebags, quickly fishing out a waterskin and a pouch with a sewing kit. 

“I think you have someone over there who wants their sword back,” he noted as he was scooting closer, jerking his chin to point behind his shoulder. 

Sure enough, when Lancelot stiffly glanced back, Thaid was already looking their way. The boy approached them with weary steps and Lancelot gripped the sword’s edge, carefully minding his fingers as he held it up for the boy to grab the hilt. Giving it back felt like he was tearing off the skin along with it, but what choice did he have?

Thaid took it without a peep, eyes rounded as he glanced between the two. It looked as if he wanted to ask something, but thought better of it. Without a word, he off-handedly sheathed the sword. In the corner of his eye, Lancelot watched Gawain undo the knot that kept the sewing kit secure. 

“Thank you for—helping me out,” Thaid stammered. He looked his age when he stood there before them, sheepish and harmless and so  _ genuine  _ that Lancelot could feel it in his bones. 

Aching with something other than the wounds, all he could do was bow his head. After another beat, when it became apparent that he wasn’t going to say anything, Thaid backed away before turning around altogether, hurrying back to his brother. 

“So that’s what I should have done when we fought,” Gawain muttered as he was pulling out enough thread from the spool before easily tugging off the right length with a sharp yank. 

Startled out of his daze, Lancelot glanced helplessly back at him. “What?”

“A kind word seems to take you out surer than a blade,” mused the knight dryly, but when his eyes flickered lower, all the mirth drained out of his face, replaced by a deep scowl. 

“Start drinking,” he ordered as he picked up the waterskin, their fingers brushing as he pushed it into Lancelot’s hand. 

If his stomach tied itself in a knot over the mere sound of his clothes coming undone, it was nothing compared to when Gawain shifted so that he kneeled before him, nudging his knees apart just the slightest so that he could come that extra inch closer before reaching out again – fingers coming to nimbly pick at the front lacing of his gambeson. 

Lancelot released a shaky breath, waterskin feeling full and cold in his hands. He swallowed dryly as he uncorked the thing, somewhat awkwardly bringing it to his lips with Gawain being half-way down his chest unlacing the gambeson. A sharp smell of oak and fire and berries all seeped from the waterskin, momentarily erasing the absurd fear that Gawain would be able to feel the way his heart thrashed violently in his chest. 

“This isn’t water.”

Gawain huffed as a guarded smile tugged on his lips. “You don’t say.”

Lancelot sucked in a bracing breath before taking the first careful swig. The initial taste felt like… nothing, it was smooth and soft – until he made the terrible mistake of letting it sit on his tongue. The sensation rose as if it was tinder getting devoured by flames – slow at first, only to turn into a vicious flame the moment after. His face scrunched up as the liquid burned all the way down his throat. 

Gawain huffed, amused, as he peered up at him, fingers dangerously low at his midriff where he worked the last of the lacing out of its loops. He helped him shrug off the gambeson in the same demanding manner from before, quickly tossing it onto the ground next to the rest. 

“Scoot down, I don’t want you falling off,” he said all while simultaneously helping him slide off his ruined undershirt. 

Lancelot obliged gingerly, bare back coming to rest against the boulder and hand coming back to press against the wound, fresh blood seeping through his fingers. The air knotted his skin tight, muscles tensing over aching bones. As he looked down, he saw that blood had run all the way down the waistband of his trousers. 

“You need to drink more—c’mon,” Gawain urged with an impatient wave of his hand. He picked at the already opened sewing kit, bringing up the threaded needle – it was nothing like the small, fine needles the healers used. The thread was grey, thick and horrible and Lancelot couldn’t help but shudder at the sight, eyes coming to squeeze shut as he took another swig. 

“Good—and another one, come on. Not a drinker, are you?” 

It wasn’t wine or spirits… but whiskey? Lancelot let out a throaty groan, the burning sensation lingering way too slow for his liking. It was definitely whiskey, he realised as the drink warmed him from the inside out .

“Alright—that’s enough,” Gawain said as he grabbed the waterskin from his hand and swatted away Lancelot’s hand that clutched at the wound, “Forgive me for this.”

Lancelot didn’t understand what he meant until he felt Gawain pour whiskey over the wound.

It fucking  _ stung. _

If it had burned in his throat, it was nothing compared to feeling it seep into the raw gash. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying his damndest to weather the pain, but it only magnified by each passing moment – it hurt, it hurt so fucking much that he didn’t know what to do. It was unrelenting, horrible in that inescapable way and he whimpered like a kicked dog.

“Breathe, just breathe,” Gawain urged him, suddenly sounding so far away. 

It felt like the pain would never cease, yet slowly but surely, it withdrew by each ragged breath. He felt a warm, calloused hand squeeze his shoulder and when he slowly pried opened his eyes, he saw that Gawain was staring back at him. 

It still stung in that awful, bone-eating way.  _ “Merde,” _ he said, breathless.

Gawain quirked an eyebrow. “What?”

Lancelot closed his eyes and shook his head. “Nothing,” he replied, distress bleeding right through. 

Gawain narrowed his eyes as he passed the needle from his left hand to his right, flashing that pink scar across the palm of his hand again. “Send a prayer to that God of yours because this won’t get easier.” 

The words hollowed him out and Lancelot swallowed dryly – mouth horribly parched and tasting as if something had died in there. He trembled where he sat, unable to will himself to stop. The warrior’s rush was returning with vigour as he forced himself to look away, straightening only when Gawain planted a hand on his chest and carefully had him lean slightly to the side. 

He squeezed his eyes shut when he felt Gawain’s hands on him, pain flaring as he pinched the edges of the wound together. It was nothing compared to the needle sinking through the skin; his breath stuttered as he felt the nasty pull of the thread pulling through and through and through until the knot at the end finally caught. 

He shuddered at the sensation, sweat breaking out anew.

“You need something to bite down on?”

Lancelot frantically shook his head, breaths coming out ragged and uncontrolled. He could do this—he’d suffered through worse—through worse— 

_ “Va te faire foutre.” _

“That a prayer?” raised his brows Gawain as he was pinching the wound again, needle going in. “Or have you already changed your mind?”

Lancelot arched back against the boulder, breath sharp and wet where it caught in his throat. His hand flew up to grab the man’s arm, to stop him from pulling the needle through. But for some reason, that was almost worse – feeling it just lodged in the skin as Gawain glared at him. 

“Did you hear what I said?” 

Lancelot gulped down, nodding curtly. He wasn’t trembling anymore—he was full on shaking, body hot and cold, hands curled into tight, white fists. Whereas the world had previously narrowed down to just them, it now felt as if nothing existed but Gawain’s fingers pinching at the wound – it stung and ached and— 

—he didn’t realise he’d opened his eyes again until he was peering down at the wound. Gawain’s palms were glistening red, blood running down his fingers to pool in the palm of his hand, covering that pink scar – the grey thread wasn’t even grey anymore. 

_ “Don’t _ look,” Gawain ordered quickly, hand already coming up to pinch his chin and direct his gaze up. Their eyes met for a short-lived moment before he was looking back over his shoulder. “Bate, get over here!”

_ “Coc y gath,”  _ Bate whistled as he came closer. “That’s not a bad cut, Ashman.” 

“Keep him distracted,” Gawain demanded grimly.

“How? Sing him a song?”

“Ancestors, no,” the knight muttered, nimble fingers dragging the needle through the skin again, and Lancelot breathed out sharply. “I would not wish that on an enemy.”

“Ah yes, because tearing them in half is so much better,” Bate replied absently, obviously used enough to this taunt to barely pay any attention to it, and then he frowned. “Looks like your pet is rubbing off on you.”

The memory of similar words thrown into his face flashed before his mind’s eye and Lancelot bristled at once; in the haze of pain and liquor, the vicious desire to get back for the mockery took the best of him.

_ “Ton chevalier a l'air—merde—d'aimer me rafistoler,” _ he growled, wincing through a nasty flare of pain, and bit his lip bloody by the end of it. 

Bate frowned at him, pausing for a moment before he mockingly tilted his head to the side and raised his brows. “Found your words now?” he drawled, eyes narrowing. “Well, if you can talk so much, you can also catch your bloody horse yourself after this.”

The words didn’t register at first, but in the short respite between Gawain pulling the thread through after another stitch, Lancelot stretched his neck to take a proper look. Goliath stood at the edge of the clearing, halter sitting askew on his large head – he must have torn himself just recently while Lancelot stood guard. The black stallion looked rather quirky, mane tousled from the halter and mouth stuffed with long strands of grass. 

“He’ll come back,” Lancelot remarked, letting his shoulders fall back again, and panted at another jab of the needle; sweat trickled down between his shoulder blades as the thread was pulled through again.

“That’s unexpected—such a startling display of loyalty.”

Lancelot frowned at Bate, sour expression tightening into a wince as Gawain yanked too sharp on the thread, pulling on the skin. He let out a shaky breath through gritted teeth and peered up with one eye open. “What?” 

“Well, who could have taught him that?” Bate wondered with feigned innocence, and Lancelot saw red.

He didn't even realise he was moving before Gawain pushed him back, casting him a stern warning look, and then glanced up at the frowning faun. “I said distract, not provoke. Are you so bitter because the horse took a chunk out of you?”

Bate pointed a finger at him. “Tried –  _ tried  _ to take a chunk out of me. Important difference. As it is, I am not the one fainting—ah, shite, come on,” he bent over, snapping his fingers in front of Lancelot’s face. “Eyes on me. Here—good, glare all you want, just don’t pass out.”

Lancelot bared his teeth silently.

“Scary,” Bate admitted, sounding all too cheerful for his taste. “‘Wain, are you embroidering there or what?”

Just when Lancelot thought it couldn't get any worse, it did. 

“Almost done,” Gawain mumbled. “Just a little longer, Ashman – you’ve survived worse, your scars tell as much.” 

He wished deeply that Gawain hadn’t just said that – that he could take those words back. A stone settled in the pit of his stomach as Bate cocked his head to the side to catch a glimpse of his back. It wasn’t remotely discreet and while the worst of the scars were hopefully covered by the way he leaned against the boulder, those at the back of his shoulders were on full display. 

He held his breath, bracing for the first comment as Bate huffed in what could be disbelief— could be something else entirely. A beat of silence passed, and then another, and then he realised that Bate wasn’t going to say anything at all. He looked up at him, swallowing down the taste of copper. 

"Have the Man Bloods done that?” 

The soft voice had the three of them turn their heads back to the campsite. Thaid and Failbe looked back at them; even in voice they were similar, and it was impossible to tell who had uttered the hesitant question. 

“I mean—from when they caught you?” Thaid clarified in the same careful voice.

Gawain was the first one to shift his attention back to what he was doing, sinking the needle in once more that drew a stifled groan from Lancelot. 

He squeezed his eyes shut over the pain—over the thought of what a feast for their eyes his ruined back must be, but still managed a small nod in reply. “Yes,” he said, low and hoarse and breathless. 

Despite his efforts, the bitterness inside him spilt over and seeped into his voice. When he opened his eyes, breath quick and heavy in his chest, he thought he saw something flicker across Gawain’s face. Something that hardened his eyes and tightened the lines of his face, but he was too dazed to parse the meaning of it. He focused on his breathing, trying to get it under better control as he inhaled through his nose, forcing himself to ignore all of it: the stirred up memories, the cloying henbane smell, the stares that burnt his bare shoulders.

“But some scars are fresh,” Failbe noted, and though his words were uttered softly they weren’t any less damning for that.

Lancelot felt his face turn warm, shame and pain coiling so tight that all he heard was the ringing noise inside his head. Between the thread catching on his skin again and feeling like he was laid bare before them, something snapped inside his mind like a taut bowstring. 

“I didn’t stop being an— _ ah— _ abomination just because I grew up,” he said grimly, shuddering beneath Gawain’s merciless hands.

Both the knight and Bate had their eyes primed on him; the looks on their faces made them look as if they were cut from the same cloth. His heart hammered in his chest – the hard, chiselled lines of their faces were as impossible to decipher as a foreign language; it might have been anger, disgust and worry all at once, but he wasn’t certain. Sweat ran in his eyes, and the sting made it difficult to focus, the world narrowing down to whatever small details of Gawain’s face his gaze caught on: the faint crow’s feet, the delicate web of blue veinlets running over his eyelids, the sharp slant of his cheekbones.

“Why—” started Thaid, but promptly got interrupted.

“—boy, learn when to be quiet,” Gawain advised in a deceptively mild tone before he tied off the thread and leaned back, picking up a rag to gently sweep over the stitched gash, wiping away the blood and whiskey stains. “Congratulations, Ashman – you’ve survived.”

The words left Lancelot feeling as if he was doused in cold water. Blinking rapidly, he let out a shaky, relieved breath and leaned back, fists cramping as they came undone. He looked down cautiously at the stitches running along his side. There was a bizarre searing pain seated deep in the flesh, almost like Gawain had put in a swarm of angry bees before stitching it all close. 

Blood was still oozing from the wound, but not like before. The stitches were much like the ones on his cloak – not the neatest, but sturdy enough to get him through the long ride back to town. 

“Thank you,” he mumbled, voice barely audible and the knight nodded curtly as wiped his hands on his pant-legs before rinsing the needle off with a splash of whiskey. Lancelot watched him for a moment as he packed away the sewing kit; Bate was already withdrawing, leaving them alone once more. 

Gawain wrapped a bandage around the wound, securing it with a tight knot before he reached for that green shirt again and dropped it in his arms. 

“Think you can change on your own?”

Lancelot nodded, still slightly dazed. He felt feverish – like a mere shell of himself, but the claws of chill wind ruffling his hair made him snap out of it. The fabric of the shirt was soft in his hands, clean and dry unlike everything else he wore. But with the cloying stench of blood and sweat and alcohol clinging to his skin, he couldn’t bring himself to mar something that didn’t even belong to him. It felt like his entire body was covered in a thick layer of filth that would take hours to scrub away, and he longed for a hot bath and a fresh bar of soap more than anything else in the world.

“Good—we leave as soon as the others are back,” Gawain muttered, his gentle voice matched by the soft squeeze on Lancelot’s shoulder. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Faya and Melle are sent back to gather the sacks of herbs from the battleground. Lancelot bluntly ignores the severity of his wounds, but Gawain quickly catches up to him and since the wound is still bleeding a while after a fight, deems it necessary to get stitches. Gawain stitches Lancelot up but when the pain becomes a bit too much, Bate is called over to distract him. They bicker without that friendly edge and in the middle of it all, Thaid and Failbe decide to ask about the scars on Lancelot's back. He gives them a snappy reply about not stopping to be an abomination just because he grew up. Gawain finishes stitching up and Lancelot is given a chance to recover.
> 
> French Translations:  
> Merde - Shit  
> Va te faire foutre - Go fuck yourself  
> Ton chevalier a l'air—merde—d'aimer me rafistoler - Your knight like to--shit--patch me up.
> 
> Also, a shout out to wonderful Saighin for the Fey curse Gawain used -- it also lead to the idea with the henbane ;)
> 
> So... are you as frustrated as Lancelot with this chapter? Was it too graphic? Let us know, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated! :)


	9. Homecoming

Damn whiskey.

The icy splash of water burned on his skin. It was with numb fingers he wiped off a few stray drops. The pebbled riverbend crunched as he sat back on his heels with a soft sigh, shutting his eyes for a moment. For as much as the cold dulled his throbbing headache, it hardly soothed the rest of his woes. 

Gawain wanted them back in town before tomorrow’s first light and thus, they had only stopped for brief water breaks. It was hard to tell for how long they’d been riding, but the horses were starting to have a harder time keeping up, and the day was slowly giving into night. The afternoon sky was shrouded with rosy clouds; pale light painted the landscape with strokes of pink and gold, but it was hard to appreciate its beauty when it felt like he’d been run over by a herd of horses. The vigorous pace had given him little time to dust himself off and even less to get his bearings straight; forests had given away to moors, and narrow paths trekked by animals had turned into wider roads. 

Once sufficiently far from the woods, they had stopped next to a rippling river to wash off the worst of the grime, refill their waterskins and have a quick bite. Faya and Gawain had crouched on the shore and crushed a bundle of herbs into a poultice they had administered to him and the twins; someone picking at the stitches was the last thing Lancelot wanted, but whatever mixture they’d slathered on made everything feel a little less swollen. Combined with a fresh set of bandages, and it had almost been worth peeling off his clothes once more before putting everything back on again. For as much as the lengthier stop agreed with him, it was hardly enough time for him to figure out where north was with how everything kept spinning and spinning. 

When he glanced forth at the scavengers, they were already mounting up. Lancelot pushed himself to stand with a muffled groan, idly drying his hands on the surcoat as he walked over to Goliath, minding every step. The fear of tearing the stitches slowed his movements as he put a foot in the stirrup and gingerly hauled himself up in the saddle, jaw clenched shut so tight that his teeth hurt. 

He filled his fist with Goliath’s mane as he was half-bent over the stallion’s neck and took a couple deep breaths to ease the dizzy spell. The reins dug into the palm of his hand when he straightened with a dry gulp and glanced ahead — the others were already on the move, weaving through the shrubbery back onto the road again. 

Lancelot squeezed his knees to urge Goliath into a slow walk and at the first rocking step, his stomach churned. His heart thumped wildly as nausea swept over him like a tidal wave; the stitches pulled angrily when he leaned to the side, eyes squeezing shut as he made a second acquaintance with the lunch they’d eaten just a short while ago.

“Can you make it to the next stop?” 

Lancelot swallowed down with a grimace and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He sat up slowly and pushed back the hood, stomach hollow and aching, but still he gave a short nod when their eyes met. Concern drew hard lines onto Gawain’s face; it almost looked like he was afraid to take his eyes off him as he leaned to pull out the waterskin from the saddlebag and held it out for Lancelot to grab. 

The weight of the waterskin in his hands made his stomach twist itself over nothing. He could almost taste the whiskey on his tongue—could almost feel the sting of the thread going through his skin; dread coiled tight within him. It was with trembling hands that he uncorked the thing, already bracing for that sharp smell to ooze out of its mouth, but nothing came out of it. 

“Just water,” Gawain promised after a beat, and his lips twitched in a small smile when their eyes met; it was a tense one, only deepening the weary lines on his face. “I take it our spirits are stronger than the Church wine.”

Lancelot hummed before he took a careful swig. Gawain’s words held true, and he took a big mouthful without swallowing, waterskin coming down as he gingerly leaned to the side once more and spat everything out after rinsing away the awful taste of bile. 

After that, he drank and drank and drank and drank; some of it sloshed over and ran out of the corner of his mouth and down his wrist. It tasted divine — like only clean, fresh water could.

“Been walking through the desert, Ashman?” Gawain chuckled. “Easy.” 

Lancelot half-choked on the last gulp, sore throat twisting his face up as he lowered the waterskin. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

The knight shook his head, lips still curved in that gentle smile. “You needed it, just like the stitches.”

Lancelot treated himself to another gulp before he corked the waterskin and handed it back. “Thank you,” he mumbled with a sniffle, nose horribly congested after having washed off in the river. 

“Thank me by not falling off the horse, Ashman,” Gawain said. “Better?” When Lancelot gave a stiff nod in reply, he motioned for the road. “Come along.” 

The knight allowed him to take the lead, and Goliath was quick to move. Lancelot clung to the waterskin and reins, breathing through another dizzy spell as they got back on the road — it was wide enough for them to ride side by side. The others were moving at the same walking pace a dozen steps ahead, and after just having turned his stomach inside out, it was a welcome change from the swift trot they had maintained for hours before.

Gawain reached back into his saddlebag, replacing the waterskin in his hand with a tightly woven bundle of herbs. The flower crowns were plucked off, but the leaves remained on the stems; it was feverfew and yarrow bundled together. “Here,” he said, shrugging, “it’s better brewed, but alas.” 

Lancelot turned the small bundle over in his hand; it was no longer or thicker than his index finger. Without the flowers, the strands looked like something the horses would want to munch on.

“Chew on it and let it linger,” Gawain said with an encouraging nod as if he sensed his trepidation. 

Lancelot looked over the bundle for a moment longer before he bit into the stems. The bitter taste popped up like a sock on the jaw and he couldn’t help but wince. The bare thought of letting this vile, astringent taste linger in his mouth made him shudder.

“Sadly, you have to eat the whole thing,” Gawain said, and his voice held a frankly unfair share of amusement. Lancelot shot him a side glance as he swallowed down with a grimace.

They were passing through a barren landscape that offered little to the eye and for a while, they rode in silence as Lancelot worked his way through the bundle of herbs. Bite by bite, little by little. They kept a slow walking pace, mostly because the road was a trench of mud and muck that kept unnerving the horses.

For quite a while, the only sound was the clatter of hooves and an occasional trill of a sparrow in the scrubby roadside bushes. The calm was a blessing and slowly, but surely, it felt as if the dizziness eased. The wind blew from the south, and now that Lancelot could breathe again, he noted it carried no scent of rain. Hopefully, it would bring a change in the weather, he thought; a break in a long stretch of rains. 

“Want some more?” Gawain offered as he held up the waterskin.

Lancelot reached out, uncorking the thing with none of the wariness from before and chugged a couple of gulps. The water tasted even more divine than before, the bitterness quickly disappearing by each swallow. 

He passed the waterskin back, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. As he glanced at Gawain, he couldn’t help but notice the tiny curve on his lips. There was a beat of silence, and then another; it truly was like the knight was brewing on something he wanted to say. 

“I know it might not feel like it right now, but trust me, it is going to get better,” he finally said. “You are still strong. It’s only a question of time.”

Lancelot straightened in the saddle. He never would have believed to hear his own doubtful words returned in such a way. The acknowledgement warmed him from the inside out, and a small, tired smile stretched his lips even as he scoffed softly. 

“Not as I was before,” he said at last, after trying and failing to find better words. He tugged at the reins to discourage Goliath from trying to nip at Gringolet’s mane. The white stallion merely eyed them impassively and glanced away again. 

“You have your fighting spirit back, that’s what matters,” Gawain said calmly and then paused. “Though Bate probably did not appreciate the brush off you gave him. What did you say, by the way?”

“I—” Lancelot swallowed thickly, thoughts scattering like birds, escaping his desperate grip just when he needed them, “—I asked whether you were getting back at me for the old fights.”

A horrible suspicion formed in his mind as he waited with bated breath for a reaction but Gawain simply scoffed and shook his head. “Is that what you think I would do?” he asked, a touch tartly.

“No,” Lancelot blurted out, with perhaps a little bit more conviction than intended. “Of course, no. It was a folly—forgive me.”

The knight gave him a sideways glance and then shrugged. “Granted.” For a moment, they rode in silence before he added: “My fault it all went down like this anyway.”

Lancelot frowned. “How so?”

The lines on Gawain's face hardened as he shook his head. “I should not have hesitated to listen to your warning.”

Lancelot couldn’t help but be surprised at how readily the man admitted his mistake. It was such a rare thing to witness. After all his years campaigning with Father, he’d met leaders of every kind — kings and bishops and lords — who would rather see the world burn than confess their faults. Most of the time, though, it was their soldiers who paid dearly for that fault in character. In stark contrast to how the haughty masks the lords wore to cover their cowardice shattered when presented with the consequences of their actions, Gawain’s face remained stoic. Yet his voice was raw and honest in a way that captivated Lancelot.

“It is little wonder you don’t trust me,” he muttered, not aware of the words until they were already past his lips. He hoped that the knight would see that it was just a statement of fact, not a plea for empty reassurance.

Gawain scratched his beard and a tiny smile broke through the heavy cloud on his face.

“I trust you as much as I can, all things considered,” he mused, and even though the words were an uncomfortable reminder of their past, they were uttered without any malice. “Enough to fight side by side.” 

Lancelot paused, considering his next words carefully, but when he stole a glance at Gawain, his expression didn’t reveal any hostility.

“I can do more.”

“Such as?” 

“Scout — and strategise,” he paused, and then remarked under his breath: “I did it before — though now I don’t even know where we are.”

It was an offer of vulnerability and a proof of how harmless he was, an attempt to humble the request, similar to how wolves bared their bellies to their pack leader. However, despite his attempt, the air grew heavy once more. Gawain looked away, his amiable smile fading as he glanced down at the reins gathered on his hands, idly rearranging them, and Lancelot’s stomach twisted up in knots. 

“For now, I’d rather keep it that way,” Gawain replied reservedly, still not looking at him. He peered straight ahead of them, eyes trained on the treeline that was coming up in the distance.

“Why?”

Of course, he knew the answer — if he were in Gawain’s shoes he wouldn’t want to share any information that could be used against him either, but he wanted to see if he could draw that admission out. It was strangely exhilarating to see how far he could push and even though it felt like he was walking through a dark woodland, so far the thicket had parted in front of him, drawing him further into the woods.

“Because I say so,” Gawain replied, and the slight curve of his lips didn’t make it hurt any less when the words smacked Lancelot in the face as solidly as a branch would. 

His first instinct was to let sleeping dogs lie — to accept the dismissive reply and let the awkward silence feast on them both. In the corner of his eyes, he could see that infuriating smirk that still marred the knight’s handsome features, twisted them in all the wrong ways. Lancelot clenched his jaw shut and sucked in a deep breath through his nose, all at once hating that smell of sage and cloves that clung to the air. 

He wrapped two fingers in a long lock of Goliath’s mane, enduring the silence between them a little longer while he picked his words. When he spoke, it was low like a whisper — the way someone would reach out a bone towards those large guarding dogs from the north, the ones whose blood was mixed generously with wolves. The thinly veiled danger Gawain’s gaze held reminded him of those animals.

“Have I displeased you?”

“You would know if you have.”

No matter how calm he sounded, it was an unmistakable threat, and Lancelot fell silent again. He was almost ready to abandon his attempts, but there was still a flicker of hope in him; the old, mangled up defiance resurfacing once again, undefeated by all the whips and brands. 

Despite the harsh teasing, Gawain was the one who had made him doubt the commands he had been following without questions; he was also the one to listen when his people argued. After considering it for a moment longer, Lancelot thought that perhaps it was just another test to see if he had truly renounced the ideals of paladins — blind obedience included.

“You told me to question what orders I am given — have I misunderstood you?” he tried. His hands trembled slightly as he squeezed Goliath’s mane and reins tighter and waited for the reaction. 

To his relief, Gawain merely chuckled and shook his head. He had, after all, said those exact words during their brief, but memorable conversations at the healers’ quarters, back when Lancelot had still been bedridden. It must have pleased him to see that he had actually listened.

“No, you haven’t, but when it comes to these things… Alright,” he said and leaned back a little, rolling his shoulders. “Want a chance? Guess.”

Lancelot blinked owlishly. “What?”

“Three attempts—” Gawain shrugged nonchalantly, “—guess where we are.”

The challenge perked him right up; shoulders coming back as he took a moment to gather his scattered thoughts. He cleared his throat, bruised tendons and muscles complaining over the jostling. Even though he had already had a vague idea, his gaze slid to the right, and then to the left, and then he glanced over his shoulder, carefully taking stock of everything he knew again. After a moment’s thought, he parted his lips, falling into an old habit of thinking out loud when presented with a conundrum. 

“The west coast — there is no point going east, main forces of the Ice King are there. We could not have travelled far from that forest — the accent, also — must be close to Wales. And the lake…“ he paused, frowning in thought and then narrowed his eyes. “Llanwddyn?”

The knight hummed, his face not changing a bit, no matter how carefully Lancelot searched it for a clue.

“Don’t want to guess again?” Gawain asked after a moment’s wait. 

Lancelot swallowed dryly. “Do I need to?” he wondered as he willed himself to loosen his grip around the reins. Could it be that he was right, after all? As if to prolong his suffering, Gawain was silent for a bit longer; it didn’t make matters any better that he kept looking at him like he’d just sprouted a second head. 

“That was more than you’ve ever said in one go, you know,” he uttered at last.

Lancelot wasn’t sure whether it was a good thing or not. 

“Was I right?” he asked cautiously, unable to conceal his impatience. If anything has ever pleased him unconditionally, it was getting the answer right to a difficult problem, but he rarely got the chance to indulge in it. The sharpness of his swords was considered a more important merit than the sharpness of his mind.

“Perhaps.”

That was not, by any means, an acceptable answer. For an instant, Lancelot could only gape indignantly at the innocent smile that looked completely out of place on the lips that appeared much more used to wry smirks. Gawain was seemingly enjoying his perplexed state since he didn’t even bother to hide an amused gleam in his eyes as he watched him flounder. 

Finally, Lancelot pulled himself together and gritted out: “So you do enjoy having me at your mercy.” 

Gawain shrugged, seemingly in apology, but the gesture was betrayed by the same mischievous merriment brimming in his eyes. “Just a bit. Don’t be so sullen. I know now you’re indeed good for more than fighting — I will see if I can convince others.”

* * *

“The lads and lassies and daisies back in town are going to love your first battle scars,” Melle muttered, sounding a little less sour than usual. 

Lancelot glanced over his shoulder, only to see that the Moonwing did the same to catch a glimpse at the boys who rode last. They managed small, crooked smiles in reply. Faya perked up as well and though she didn’t say anything, a faint smile curled her lips over Melle's attempt at raising their spirits. Even in the dim light, the twins looked weathered to the bone where they sat slumped in their saddles, wrapped tight in both their cloaks and extra blankets. 

They’d picked up the pace and ridden hard until darkness had conquered the day. The full moon lit up the slippery road and to spare both riders and horses, they’d slowed into a walking pace for the last stretch of the journey. The Fey chatted with each other in an attempt to stay awake, and even though some of the wariness was soothed by the safer road, they still kept their voices hushed. Not that it mattered for Lancelot — even though they had switched to common after Gawain had adamantly refused to answer in Sylvan, Lancelot still had little to say to them.

The town was sound asleep; the guards stationed at the gates called out for them, but as Gawain moved in front and the light of the torches caught on his face, the heavy oak doors creaked open. When they rode past, Lancelot heard the men’s worried questions and how the knight soothed them that the attack had happened further in the woods; he wondered briefly whether the next attack would be closer, but quickly lost track of his thoughts. Between the cold, wet night air and his hole-ridden clothes, his teeth chattered by the time he could finally spy the familiar outline of the stables. 

When they dismounted, it was as if everyone let out a breath at once. The clear hallmark of being back to safety mellowed them within the blink of an eye, their shoulders sagging and gazes losing that sharp edge. Melle unceremoniously roused the stable boys, who begrudgingly rolled off the haystacks that served as their beds and leapt to their feet, still rubbing at their eyes and yawning. The sight of ruffled, bloodied scouts quickly woke them up though, and they rushed to help the scavengers unsaddle their horses—all except Gringolet.

“Sorry, pal,” Gawain muttered, patting his neck, “you’re with Bate for tonight.”

The faun and the horse exchanged equally unamused glances, but no one else could even dare to approach the stallion — it didn’t exactly help that he bared his teeth in a disturbingly wolfish way. Lancelot paused unsaddling Goliath and watched for a moment how Gringolet was led away, snorting loudly and shaking his mane in a clear display of temper. In the meantime Gawain gave orders — the twins were to go with him to the healers, the others to stay behind and deal with the loot and the horses. 

Lancelot turned away and carefully tugged down the saddlebags, wincing at the pain flaring up all over his body. It was with gritted teeth he sat the thing aside all while clamping a hand over the stitches; he barely had time to straighten before Gawain appeared right next to him. The twin’s pale faces peeked from behind his shoulder, and he had what seemed to be all of their sacks of herbs at once hoisted on his shoulder.

“Come,” he demanded, and when Lancelot shot a hesitant look at Goliath, gestured impatiently to urge him on. “He is going to be fine. Bate?” Gawain called out, raising his voice to be heard over the commotion. “Can you help here?”

“If you’re trying to get rid of me by feeding me to those demon horses, I’ll let you know there are witnesses,” Bate shot back, without turning around from where he was trying to stop Gringolet from biting off his braid—with limited success. “Yes, yes, I’ll do it. Go already.”

Lancelot threw one last glance at Goliath as Gawain was already pulling him by the arm and leading him out of the stable. Together with the twins, who were so fatigued they stumbled over every unevenly laid cobblestone, they strode across the square to the inn where the healers had set up shop.

He could see from the street that there was a candle lit, glowing softly from behind the window shutters. The door opened with a creak and Gawain herded them inside like cattle; two healers were already waiting for them: Polly and a young Snake woman rushed forth, gently pulling the twins away. The boys dropped on a bench and slumped against each other as the women fetched rags and water to start cleaning the wounds for a closer look. Polly took one look at Lancelot and with that, she sent the snake woman to fetch another healer. 

“Boy, brace yourself,” she said, nodding at Failbe’s shoulder, as she was rolling up her sleeves. “That is going to need to come out.”

“Where do you want these?” Gawain asked as he held up one of the herb sacks.

“Over by the potion table,” gestured Polly and then she was looking straight at Lancelot, eyes falling to the slice on his surcoat, “nicked in the side? Take your clothes off, another healer will see to you.” 

Lancelot bowed his head as he moved over to a nearby bench. On the other side of the inn, a sparse row of patients slept before the brightly lit hearth — it was warm in here, but not warm enough for him to stop shivering. As he peeled away his clothes, trying not to pay attention to the way the fabric clung to his skin, he looked over to where the twins sat no more than a handful of paces away. 

“D-does it have to come out?” Thaid asked, voice low like a whisper. Tears trailed down his cheeks, glistening in the dim light, and Lancelot’s heart went out for the boy. He looked so small with his brother's arm gingerly wrapped around his side. 

“If you want to live,” Polly said curtly as she handed him a small potion flask. “Drink this.”

The boy tried to half-heartedly protest, eyes leaping to Gawain who walked back to them now free from the sacks, but fell silent at once after Polly clicked her tongue. 

“See that blade over there?” Polly asked, turning to Gawain before she nodded to a blackened surgical knife on the counter. “Go heat it.” 

Lancelot glanced up and met Gawain’s eyes for a brief moment; there was a worried twist to his mouth. Before his gaze could wander away with the knight, Polly spoke up. 

“How old are those dressings?”

Lancelot grimaced as he sat up on the edge of the bench. Next to him, his cloak, surcoat, gambeson and green shirt were bundled in a cold, muddy pile. “From today,” he muttered as he pressed a hand against his side. 

Polly narrowed her eyes. “Doubt it, take them off,” she said as she was helping Failbe out of his clothes. She half-turned back to Lancelot. “Fever?” 

Lancelot shook his head.

“He probably has,” Gawain called from the hearth. Lancelot scrubbed a hand over his face and after a single look from Polly, began to unwrap his bandages. The poultice that’d previously been a wet mush on his skin peeled away like specks of muck. 

In a short while, the Snake woman appeared in the doors again and behind her, an elderly Moonwing with greying hair and a narrow beak-like nose. He must have been awake already, as his eyes were sharp and not a wrinkle was out of place on the folds of his robes. Lancelot couldn’t remember seeing him before, and if the hardened look on Gawain’s face as he came back with the gleaming knife in hand said anything, he hadn’t either.

“Newcomer?” Gawain asked with a strange combination of encouragement and pity, spiced generously with impatience. “Can you patch him up? A sword wound—I stitched it, but he needs a master to look.”

“Will do what I can, Sir Gawain,” the man nodded solemnly, and then he cleared his throat; when he continued, his soft, slightly nasal accent had grown stronger. “Though I’d rather do that with you nearby, if possible.”

Encouraged by the knight’s curt nod, he briskly walked over to the cabinet with potions. Gawain passed the white-hot knife to the snake woman before he walked over to Lancelot. The sound of Failbe whimpering as Polly prodded the wound made them both snap their eyes up — the boy was no longer crying silently, but full-on sobbing. Lancelot pried his gaze away, back to the healer and watched how he fished out gauze, linen, and an array of small clay vessels from the iron chest. 

It was hard not to notice the way his hands shook once he walked back to where Lancelot sat and kneeled next to the bench, putting the supplies next to him. He straightened gingerly and when the healer gently guided him to lean a little to the side and raise his elbow so that it was out of the way, he let out a strained breath. Gawain placed a warm, burning hand on his shoulder, gently stopping him from tipping to the side.

“I have seen worse. Sewn with bear thread, I assume?”

“It was either that, or burn the wound closed,” Gawain said matter-of-factly.

The healer pursed his lips, not looking fully convinced. “It will do. They will most likely hold for another day depending on the swelling. We can consider what to do in the morning. ” 

Lancelot let out a relieved breath, but before he could lose some of the tension, another pained whimper sounded from the other corner, that quickly turned into muffled screaming until something crunched wetly. When he looked over there, he saw Polly straighten triumphantly with a blood-dripping arrowhead in one hand, the white-hot blade in another. In the moment after, the stank of burned flesh spread through the inn.

Gawain dove from Lancelot’s side so quickly that he tipped to the side, the stitches painfully stretching as he caught himself on his elbow. It took him a blink to realise that Failbe had, predictably, passed out on the bench and the knight was merely there to be the muscle to help so that he didn’t fall off the bench. 

Lancelot bit his lip as he pushed himself up, still shaking where he sat in nothing but his boots and trousers. In the corner of his eye, he saw how the Moonwing studied him.

“What?” he bit out, harder than intended. 

“Your stitches?” the healer prompted and motioned against his side with the bottle of antiseptic in hand. “Do you want to lie down?”

“No,” Lancelot mumbled as he slowly twisted to the side to bare his wound. 

“I got him,” Gawain said and then he was coming close, warm hand coming to land on his shoulder once more. But before he could think about the way the touch felt like a hot poker against his skin, a loud pop sounded when the healer uncorked the bottle. 

The sharp scent of alcohol permeated the air and Lancelot narrowed his eyes. He dug his fingers into the edge of the bench to stop himself from lashing out as the healer pressed the dampened gauze over the stitches and a breath hitched in his throat; it fucking  _ stung _ . But when Gawain moved imperceptibly closer, just a subtle shift of weight from one foot to another, he glanced at the healer briefly and shook his head. 

Only then did the healer unfreeze, letting out a small relieved breath, barely audible for anyone but his patient. Gawain watched his hands for a moment before moving his eyes to Lancelot; he held them for a moment and then went back to staring down the Moonwing, who at this point was starting to look as white as the bandages, but still didn’t back down.

In spite of his concerns, the healer made it through without losing his composure, and Lancelot made it through without sending a fist flying. He breathed shakily, sore muscles losing their dreaded tension as he straightened with the help of Gawain. They exchanged a glance, but then the knight was already looking back to the twins. Lancelot shifted his gaze to where the healer had gone back to the potion cabinet and watched how he reached for one of the bottles.

When he came back, Lancelot saw those fragile white nails wrapped around the dark glass. The cork popped out with a muffled sound. Lancelot’s frown deepened when the man reached out to hand him a bottle; he didn’t move a finger to take it, studying the opaque glass. 

“What is this?” he asked in a low voice. The man’s neatly folded wings shifted as if he shrugged.

“A potion,” the Moonwing answered in an even tone, and nothing stirred in his pale eyes as he stared back at Lancelot. The translucent feathers veering over his cheeks reflected the candlelight with a pearly glint. “Why? What else could it be?”

“I have not seen it before,” he said in lieu of reply. “And I helped prepare the last batch.”

“You?” the Moonwing’s brows flew up, but when he glanced at Gawain and saw him nod, he cleared his throat and took a moment to brush off his apron before speaking again. “It’s from what I brewed before coming here. For other refugees. To fight the infection and help with the pain—you only need two swallows,” he sounded rather proud, but then paused and added, voice growing stern. “Elder, primrose, fungi, and no arsenic, if you must know.”

Lancelot wanted to point out he would have smelled it, but caught himself in time. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, rolled his shoulder to loosen the knot in the sore muscles, and then felt Gawain shift next to him. 

“Easy, Ashman,” he muttered in a low voice and glanced at the Moonwing, who leaned back in his seat as if trying to put some distance between them. “Forgive his wariness, master healer. He had a run-in with one of your kin just a day ago.” 

The healer blinked slowly, and now something twisted in his face. “I believe he had run-ins with many of them.”

The tense silence grew heavy for a moment but then Lancelot reached out, not taking his eyes off the Moonwing as he grabbed the potion. In a single swift motion, he pulled it closer and knocked it back. The muscles of his throat ached as he gulped down the liquid so quick that he didn’t even register the taste, before putting the vial back on the table next to them with a thud. The potion tingled on his tongue and the aftertaste tasted… odd. Not bad, but not pleasant either. For a moment longer, none of them spoke.

“Well,” the knight muttered at last. “I was going to act as your cup-bearer, but I see that is not needed.”

The Moonwing startled slightly, and a shadow crossed his face that told Lancelot he didn’t expect those words. He couldn’t help thinking what could have been in that bottle if the man had a little bit more time—and what it would have done to Gawain. 

“It’s alright, Guiscard,” Polly interrupted, coming closer as she wiped her hands on the piece of cloth. “Failbe needs that potion of yours--and then we’re done.”

With a curt nod, the man rose from his knees; despite his too straight spine and the stiff way he carried himself, his feet moved without a sound over the stained wooden floorboards. Remembering how Melle always walked with surprising lack of grace, Lancelot realised that the scout was more cunning than he gave him credit for. However, his musings were interrupted by the sound of water dripping when Polly washed off her bloodied hands in the basin.

“He is a potion maker, not a field healer,” she explained, not looking at him, as she rubbed thoroughly at the bright crimson stains. “Just came yesterday, still jumpy.”

With a commanding raise of her brows, she approached Lancelot and made quick work of wrapping a new bandage around to cover the stitches. After that, she leaned down to examine his throat. As she prodded carefully at the bruising there, wiped the skin clean with a warm rag and applied the salve from the clay jar, he looked anywhere but, eyes inevitably drawn to the others again, even though the sight was far from comforting. Gawain had moved to the boys, and his broad frame shielded them, but Lancelot still caught the glimpse of Thaid’s pitifully wincing face as he had his wound patched up by the Snake woman. Failbe was blinking slowly where he laid, gradually coming back to his senses.

The creak of the door made Lancelot turn his head to the entrance. It was Arthur, dressed in nothing but his nightclothes. Even in the dim light, it was easy to see the state of disarray his curly hair was in, almost as if he’d tossed himself out of bed the moment he’d heard they were back. He stood with his arms crossed tightly across his chest in a feeble attempt to stay warm and the sword that was meant to hang on his hip hung more on his back. 

“I heard you were attacked. What happened?” Artur said.

“Raiders,” Gawain replied flatly as he strode up to him. 

“Is everyone alive?”

“Aye, just the twins got a good scratch each. They’ll live, right, fellas?” the twins nodded weakly, and then, as one, shifted their eyes to Lancelot. 

“And what happened to him?” wondered Arthur with a frown, nodding at him as well. 

He would have bristled at the tone but was too busy trying not to squirm under Polly’s ministrations as she inspected his wrist.

“He fought as well,” the knight said calmly. 

“What?” Arthur’s voice raised in surprise.

Gawain was going to answer, but then was interrupted by the low angry hiss Lancelot let out as the healer rotated his wrist in a way that sent a sharp stab of pain all the way to his elbow. Lancelot breathed out slowly through his nose and closed his eyes for a moment, willing himself not to shove her away. 

“It’s a bad sprain,” Polly said. “But it is nothing that can’t be fixed with some rest. It is too swollen to be wrapped, better to just let it be.” 

Lancelot hummed darkly. Polly shifted her focus to his other arm — the one where the cut was. It was red at the edges, but at least it was dry. She worked fast, which was a small mercy. When she spread the last of the salve on the cut on his arm, it tingled and stung, awakening that horrible itching sensation once more. He stared down at the wound as if that would make it stop itching, but instead he saw how the angry red paled right in front of his eyes. Polly drew back and picked up another roll of clean bandage, and began wrapping the wound.

Lancelot exhaled heavily at the realisation that the worst was finally over, and slowly looked up at Gawain. The knight waited for his hesitant nod and then turned around to take Arthur by the elbow and gently, but firmly led him outside.

As Polly wrapped the bandage around his wrist, Lancelot kept on listening — anything to stop thinking about the crawling under his skin at being exposed and vulnerable. He hung on every word even as his face showed nothing.

“It was my call. Are you going to argue?”

“That was — Gawain,” Arthur sputtered, “that was bloody reckless. He is… He is dangerous.”

“So am I. But I didn’t have to be now—and I trust I won’t have to be in the future.”

“How can you say—nevermind. It’s because he’s Fey, isn’t it? Do you truly think that’s enough to take such a risk?”

“Yes. There was no other choice, Arthur. There were too many of them. Would you rather Thaid got cleaved in half? It is thanks to Ashman that the boys are back in one piece.”

Not sure what to make of it, Lancelot blinked, mask cracking a bit. Gawain sounded downright drained, and there was a hint of uncertainty in his voice that made him stiffen, wondering for how much longer the knight would be willing to protect him. 

It was hard to believe that it was that very morning they’d battled the raiders — today had been long and exhausting, and the more he thought about the consequences, the more his head hurt. Still, with bated breath, he waited for the next words, desperate to learn at least something.

“Are there any news from Spear?” Gawain broke the silence.

“Not yet,” sighed Arthur. “Yeva sent one of her birds to check on them — we should hear back tomorrow. Speaking about that...”

“Not here,” interrupted Gawain. “I just wanted to know if you heard back. Can you take this? It’s a...” he paused. “I’ll tell you later.”

“Why?”

Realising he didn’t do himself any favours eavesdropping, Lancelot tried his best to shut their voices out. Once Polly was done with rebandaging him, she gave him an approving nod and, to his surprise, a small pat on the shoulder; everything still itched, burned and pulled as Lancelot shrugged back into the shirt, but at least he could lean back to take a breath. It was, to his relief, only a short time until the knight reappeared in the doorway.

“Time to go home,” he said with a tired, crooked smile, and Lancelot gingerly pushed off the bench, pretended he didn’t sway and threw his cloak back on before balling up the rest in his arms.

* * *

It was past midnight when they made their way to the house they—well, occupied, he supposed was the word. Ever since Fey and raiders had taken over the lakeside town, they were housed together with the locals. Lancelot had still been out of it for when it had started, but in the last few days leading up to their departure, he had gotten a glimpse into the camp life. 

While tense at times, they seemed to have made the arrangement work with relatively little bloodshed. There were occasional quarrels; he’d heard them in the streets or witnessed Gawain pacify the disputants, but it hadn’t seemed all too serious. He wondered whether it would change when the winter came; no amount of pleasantries would be enough to fill empty stomachs, and from what he could estimate, there must be well over a hundred Fey here and double the number of raiders. 

For now though, most households were welcoming — largely because they had little choice. Most men were drafted into King Uther’s army, which played into the hands of Fey and raiders, as not only had it left the town defenceless, but also allowed them to find shelter in wooden houses instead of windswept tattered tents. He’d noted that the occupants were rather accommodating — even raiders who for all their bark, didn’t bite too much, and any harassment or looting was punished severely. 

In many households, they had even taken over the roles of the men who were gone, and for the last couple of weeks, they’d stayed in one such house — it belonged to a withdrawn, solemn widow and her young children. It wasn’t really a home, as Gawain had gotten to call it, but it was the closest they could get for the time being. He’d used those exact words. Lancelot wasn’t sure why he’d bothered telling him that — it wasn’t like he had one in years, the closest being the small room in the abbey back in Francia. 

At least he only shared his room with one man now. The housing was scarce, and Fey usually shared the space between four if not five of them. It was better in the widow’s house, only Kaze and two more Fey occupied the old master bedroom. No one was eager to sleep next to him though, which left him in the attic with Gawain. 

The attic was a small room with a slanted roof and at the far end of it, there was a window overlooking the forest. It wasn’t much, but after the last few days in the saddle, it felt like a blessing to finally be back as Gawain pushed the door open and they stepped inside with only a single candle to shine their way. The knight still sometimes bumped his head on that one low beam, Lancelot thought with distant amusement, and then almost walked into it himself.

With a muffled, indignant noise, he swayed to the side, careful not to drop the candle. Gawain shot him a sideways glance from where he was putting the jug with hot water and the bundle of food he had raided from the inn’s kitchen on the small desk pushed against the wall next to the window. Lancelot clenched his jaw and followed, placing the small candle on the desk before he walked over to his bedroll. It was as he left it — mounted on the stack of neatly folded blankets. 

Lancelot dumped the pile of his stained clothes close to the entrance and reached up with stiff fingers to tug at the fastenings of his cloak, shrugging out of it and folding it neatly, despite its rather sorry state. The idea of crawling into bed like this — dirty and sweaty — drained him of the last drops of energy. Cleanliness brought one closer to God, and for as much as he craved a good night's sleep, he couldn’t wait for the morning so that they could bathe in the lake. Left in his boots, trousers and Gawain’s green shirt, he stood for a moment, trying to remember what it was he needed to do.

“Care to join?” Gawain called out from where he was unwrapping the bundle of food. Perking up at once, Lancelot puttered over to the table. The mouthwatering smell of rye bread and cheese made his stomach growl; he saw Gawain’s lips twitch in a smile, and responded by silently snatching his share and marching over to his own place.

When the food touched his tongue, Lancelot moaned softly, and then hastily swallowed the mouthful to muffle any other ungodly sounds. He lowered himself to his knees, put the plate aside and unrolled the bedroll. Taking another quick greedy bite, he spread out the blankets and sat down gingerly, wooden boards creaking in reply. To his delight, he hadn’t bled through the bandage while they had ridden, and the green shirt was unmarred. 

He glanced up to where Gawain still stood by the desk; his portion was gone, not a crumb left, and he was now preparing the herbs for the tea in curt, well-practised motions. 

“Alright, one thing done,” the knight muttered under his breath as he finished pouring the steaming water over and put the jug down. He turned toward Lancelot with both mugs in hand. “Now, drink it up.”

Towering over him, Gawain handed him the mug and Lancelot straightened with a grimace where he sat, hastening to wrap his palms around it. The steam that rose to touch his face smelled like the forest itself: earthy and vibrant and strong. Lavender, he thought, narrowing his eyes, and chamomile.

“So,” Gawain said, and then paused, eyes trained on his hands. “That should—you—is it not too hot like this?” At the soft inquisitive noise Lancelot made, he frowned. “Nevermind. That should let you sleep, though I doubt it would be a problem. You’re taking the bed for tonight.”

Lancelot swallowed the mouthful of bitter brew, face scrunching up from both the heat and taste. “There’s no—” 

“—Ashman.”

The severity in Gawain’s voice rendered him speechless. Not out of fear or fright, but because it was pointless to argue when the knight had already made up his mind; he sounded tired as well, which only was another reason to not pick this battle. Lancelot eyed the bed as the silence stretched between them, and only when he looked up at Gawain did the man continue. 

“For someone who worries about displeasing me, you sure like being stubborn for no good reason,” he said as he unfastened the belts and ties holding the armour together, one by one.

“I might still bleed… No point in marring the linens,” Lancelot mumbled as he averted his eyes, focusing on the mug in his hands.

Gawain scoffed, shrugging out of his armour. “A problem that can be solved with a trip to the laundresses is not a problem. While I’m on it, I will see if I can get you some more clothes as well,” he said and then he was nodding at the pile of ruined clothes. Lancelot looked at it as well; everything needed to be washed and mended, a laborious ordeal that made his head hurt at the mere thought. 

He scrubbed a hand over his face and let out a sigh. Gawain raised his own mug at him, encouraging him to drink. Lancelot took another swallow. In the candlelight, he caught a glimpse of the stitches on his cloak. It just seemed to be the way the knight cared about him, and if he bothered to mend the cloth, maybe he truly was just worried about his state. 

Gawain followed his eyes and clicked his tongue. “Can’t have you running around in rags from a deadman forever. Bad for morale,” he said before taking another swallow and even though there was the beginning of a smile stretching his lips, he sounded deadly serious.

It was hard to tell if it was a joke or not. Lancelot fingered the collar of his shirt, stroking the soft fabric with his thumb and felt the neat line of stitches. “Do you want this back?” he asked, fatigue bleeding right through. He put the mug down, ready to shed the shirt if needed; it might be the least sullied thing he wore, but it wasn’t his after all. 

“Do you want to freeze tonight?” Gawain countered. The dim moonlight that filtered through the window reflected off his eyes, a vivid glimmer of green that made the hair at the back of Lancelot’s neck stand. For a moment, Gawain seemed to study his face, and then he shook his head. 

“Keep it,” he said, taking a swallow of his own brew before he moved over to sit at the edge of the bed to tug his boots off, “might come in handy next time someone stabs you.”

Lancelot felt his stomach flutter and he cautiously lowered his hand. The offer sounded so simple and off-handed, but that was just on the surface. So far it had been a necessity, but to wear something from the Green Knight’s shoulder every day, to be seen in his colours — it was guaranteed to avert some hateful stares as if it was an enchanted cloak from the fairytales. All at once, he realised that people seeing him in Gawain’s colours wouldn’t just paint a target at his back — it would mark him, protect him in other ways. 

He took off his boots and picked up the mug again before he gingerly pushed himself up. The floorboards creaked as he made his way to the bed and sat down on the edge, careful to maintain as much of a respectful distance from Gawain as the narrow frame allowed.

“How many have already tried?” he wondered. 

Gawain scoffed and cocked his head to the side, stretching the neck with a faint crack. “You’re the one to tell me.”

“There are more than I know of, aren’t there?” Lancelot guessed before taking a small sip of the bitter tincture.

His question was met with silence. Warily, he watched how Gawain’s eyes darkened and his frown grew deeper as he rubbed at the stubble on his chin. The answer was obvious to both of them, and Lancelot wondered why the man seemed so upset about it. He hardly expected a different outcome, but before he could say so, Gawain dropped his hand and exhaled angrily.

“Yes,” he replied finally in a clipped voice. “Though I reckon that Melle’s failure will put an end to it. Still — just… wear the bloody shirt.”

Something tugged at Lancelot’s mind, the echoes of taunting sneers and the gleam of a campfire in the dark, laughing eyes filling his head; his eyes flickered briefly to the door, the stairs leading to the Fey sleeping soundly below. The silence in the attic grew heavy, only the muffled chorus of insects and the occasional hoot of an owl sounding through the air.

“I am not good with words,” Lancelot muttered, and startled at the sound of his own voice, before swallowing thickly and braving through. “But I’ll make sure you don’t regret it.”

Gawain eyed him, before smiling with just a corner of his mouth. “I know I won’t. But...” he trailed off, and Lancelot looked up again to see a strange, wistful look flicker over his face. “Nevermind. Not now.” 

Distantly, he wondered if he was supposed to say something, but his tired, perplexed mind struggled to conjure a proper response. They were so close, he noted in a detached way, that he could clearly see the throbbing vein in the hollow of Gawain’s throat.

“Is something wrong?”

“No,” he shook his head in a daze and watched how the skin shifted when Gawain sighed.

“You’re hiding things again,” the knight admonished gently, but then raised his hand in a placating gesture. “It’s fine, you don’t have to say, but... you’re not alone anymore, Lancelot — so stop acting as such, hiding when I am trying to help,” he added softly as he clasped his shoulder, making him sway a bit. “It’s not just me, though. Bate is warming up to you already, the others will catch up. Fey have each other’s backs.”

“I’ve noticed.”

It just slipped out before he could catch himself, and Lancelot felt the blush grow hotter on his face as he cursed himself inwardly for letting the bitter words ruin the moment. Surely, it should have been enough to anger the man, but Gawain surprised him once more. At this point, he should have probably expected it.

“Someone is testy,” the knight noted airily and tilted his head. “Eat. If you keep starving yourself, the next raider you meet will snap you like a twig.”

Lancelot looked down, taking a moment before finishing the remains of the tea. Putting the cup down by the bed with a quiet thud, he straightened slowly and took a deep inhale. 

“Not if I have my swords,” he said cautiously.

Gawain cocked his head to the side, narrowed his eyes for a moment, and then shrugged slightly, popping the last piece of bread into his mouth and brushing off his hands.

“That’s true. Good thing I already sent a word to Kaze to get them for you,” he said, and Lancelot breathed out in relief before the words truly caught up with him, and sent his heart racing.

“You did?” he couldn’t help asking for reassurance, even though it was unnecessary, but Gawain just gave him another nod, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Yes. For training only, for now,” he added, but that was just fine, and Lancelot hastily took a swallow of the brew to hide a relieved smile tugging at his lips. “The boys especially need to learn faster, and I have no time to teach them, damn it. We would have been in a tight spot without you.”

They would have been dead, at least two or three of them, a cold distant voice in his head observed, but he shut it down firmly and allowed himself to instead bask in the warm feeling that spread in his chest for a moment longer. After brief hesitation, he gave Gawain a small smile, and the feeling grew even stronger when the knight returned it with a smile of his own.

“Can I ask something?” Lancelot wondered quietly, and, at the brisk nod, wrapped his hands tighter around the mug, seeking more of the warmth. “When did you do it?”

“Tonight,” admitted Gawain, taking another sip before he added, “hope Arthur will not brush it off as a vivid nightmare.”

When he eyed him with a wry grin curving the corner of his mouth, Lancelot wanted to ask about that, too, but after a moment’s hesitation decided against it. Instead, he reached out for another piece of bread, doing his best to finish what was on the plate. It was better not to test the man’s patience, and so for a while, they both stayed silent.

Bit by bit his eyelids began to droop. Tugging a threadbare blanket over his shoulders, Lancelot scooted further up the bed and curled in a ball, squirming a bit to sink deeper into the thin straw mattress that was blissfully soft after sleeping for months on the ground.

“Alright—old tricks still seem to work,” Gawain huffed as he pushed himself off the bed. 

There was a gleam of metal — he had a knife clutched in his hand, and Lancelot startled, realising he hadn’t seen it just a moment ago, but then Gawain had simply discarded it on the floor next to the bedroll. It cluttered against the wood, the quiet sound of it enough to make Lancelot jump a bit, before tearing his eyes away.

“Are you not going to chain me?” he asked quietly, watching how the man stretched with a heavy sigh, the bare skin of his side and back showing when the fabric rode up. There were more scars littering the skin, the long jagged ribbons of lighter skin spanning the entire expanse from one hip to another. When Lancelot’s eyes strayed to a smaller, but so much more sinister scar on the lower back, he shuddered and looked away.

“I am,” simply confirmed Gawain, putting away his unfinished mug and bending over to open the chest standing at the feet of the bed. At the thud of the lid, he glanced at him again. 

“Then what is,” he yawned, “is the knife for?”

Their eyes met as the knight stepped back, the shackles hanging from his fingers, and Lancelot shivered, burying deeper under the blanket.

“A habit,” Gawain replied curtly and then nodded at the bandaged arms. “Which one?” 

After a long moment of numb staring and very dazed contemplation, Lancelot hesitantly raised the one with the gash from the poisoned blade. It hurt less than the sprained one, and now as he thought about it — whatever salve Polly had slathered on had finally calmed that itching sensation. 

Something twisted in his stomach, something forbidden, dirty and more potent than any spirits when Gawain leaned closer to lock a manacle around his wrist. But despite the low, simmering heat flooding him on the inside, the rot still sat in the back of his mind, whispering that it was wrong. Lancelot shifted beneath the blanket, trying to dislodge the insistent voice.

“A habit from me?” he wondered, barely audible, watching how Gawain secured the chain and then hooked his fingers around the iron ring to tug, checking that it sat right. Lancelot remembered how displeased the widow had looked when Gawain had hammered the ring onto the floorboards. The chain was long enough that he could lay comfortably on his side. 

Gawain followed the chain back to him, rough fingers slowing right by the cuff and Lancelot shivered, tilting his head a bit to hide his burning face into the pillow. The silence stretched, but for once, he didn’t mind. He was fascinated by the way the touch felt to the point it was easier to ignore the shame with every second. 

At last, Gawain shook his head without saying a word and pushed himself up. Lancelot watched how he picked up the mug and distantly realised it was probably a dismissal, but unable to suppress his curiosity, he asked, voice low with sleep and slurring at every syllable: “From the desert?”

“From there, too,” came a tense reply and then Gawain paused, a frown knitting his brows together. He took a swallow of his tea, and finally said, “I’ve been at war for longer than I was at peace. It leaves a trace.”

Lancelot wanted to ask more, but his tongue wouldn’t obey, exhaustion taking the best of him. Slowly, he blinked up at the knight, who had already looked away but still stood by his side, lost in thought. A greedy, weak part of him wanted to keep looking; it felt like he was satiating some bone-deep hunger when he let his eyes trace the decisive stroke of the man’s shoulders, the way his muscles rolled under the naked skin as he tugged the undershirt off. 

Not a single thought remained in his head when he saw Gawain unlace his trousers. Before he could be caught red-handed, Lancelot shifted away with his back facing him, but the words of the prayers mangled in his head as he tried to call on them to compose himself. No matter how much he was burning up, the day had just been too long, and barely any time passed before his treacherous body succumbed altogether. 

The last thing he felt was the gentle scent of sage wafting off the bed linen, the chill of the steel against his wrist — and then the warm brush of fingers against his forehead, but sleep dragged Lancelot under before he could open his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we have it, we apologise for the wait but we ended up having to reorganise this chapter a couple of times for it to make sense in terms of plot-logic. :) 
> 
> So, how did this chapter make you feel? Was it worth the wait?


	10. Bring Your Hunger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from The Amazing Devil - The Horror and The Wild.  
> Music: Meg Myers - Lemon Eyes [[youtube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zP8kKCdWFvQ)]

This must be what heaven felt like; Lancelot tipped his head back against the pillow, a throaty moan escaping past his lips as Gawain sucked on that ticklish spot right beneath the hinge of his jaw. 

“You’re pretty like this.” Gawain’s voice was nothing but a hot gust of air against his skin. Lancelot felt the shiver spread like a wildfire over his body, muscles coiling tight where he was caged beneath the overwhelming weight of him. The scent of sage and cloves filled his head with each deep breath, reaching far down to the hot arousal that sat lodged deep in his belly – it was too much and too little for him all at once.

“You like this, don’t you?” Gawain asked in the same hushed manner, sucking hard kisses down the tense cords of his neck. There was the sharp scratch of beard rubbing against skin, unleashing another wave of goosebumps as Lancelot melted into the mattress. A soft mewl came out of his mouth as he arched his neck, desperately wanting Gawain to kiss and lick every inch of him.

“Do you like this as well?” Lancelot shuddered when Gawain nibbled at the skin, body twisting beneath the knight’s huge frame. The drag of their bodies against one another felt as if the fire sparks sizzled right under his skin; his cock was painfully hard against the lacing of his trousers, and he shifted, desperate for that small lick of pleasure again.

Gawain huffed against his neck and then he rolled his hips against Lancelot’s, forcing him to gasp for air, the low heat of arousal flaring up at once. He kissed the place where he’d just grazed his teeth – the tip of his nose traced the line of Lancelot’s jaw as he shifted his focus to the other side, hot mouth sucking a wet mark on his throat. It felt like every point of contact brought another wave of sparks under his half-closed eyelids, and his breaths grew heavy, more ragged with every caress.

“Who would’ve thought you were so sensitive?” 

The words struck a familiar chord, but Lancelot was too busy noticing how hard, how _big_ Gawain’s cock felt against his. His stomach fluttered, a tiny whimper escaping past his lips as he ground his hips against him, desperate for the delicious friction.

Gawain obliged with a warm, vibrating hum against his neck as he rolled his hips slowly – there was quiet strength behind his movement, something unchallenged that made Lancelot buzz beneath him, flustered and desperate. The slow drag and catch of their trousers rubbing together, steady and warm and utterly inescapable, made him want to bite on something in frustration. 

Trying to be patient, but also hoping to urge the other on, Lancelot dragged his free hand over Gawain’s flank and up toward his neck, feeling the muscles roll under the scarred skin, knotted tight. He combed a hand through the hair at the back of his head, nails scratching at the warm scalp, and then he felt Gawain sink his teeth into his neck, this time harder than before. 

A short, wet breath caught in his throat when Gawain broke the skin; a pinch of pain mingling with the warm, suffocating pleasure. 

“Relax,” Gawain muttered against his neck, momentarily pausing to mouth at the bite, “it’s just a bit of blood.”

Lancelot swallowed thickly, lips pressed together in a taut line and yet, a low mewl escaped him as Gawain sucked and licked and kissed at the bite, worrying it further. His fingers closed around a lock of auburn hair, eyes flying open as he carefully shifted his gaze to look at the man. Up-close, the tips of his eyelashes wore a tint of red. 

“Lancelot,” he heard him say, distant and nothing like the warm, hushed voice from before. Gawain looked up at him, eyes impossibly green in the bright light.

“What are you looking at?” he asked, voice suddenly warm and gentle again, matching the curve of his mouth. His beard carried the same ruddy tint, lips wet and plush and _red_. 

_“Lancelot,”_ he heard him say, stronger this time, except that his lips weren't moving. Lancelot felt his heart hammer in his chest; Gawain could hear it, he was dead sure that he could. For a blink, the man looked unmoving – almost as if he’d frozen in time; eyes gleaming like two jades and his hair – his hair was tinted the same red as if lit up by the setting winter sun. 

Lancelot brought his hand forth, fingers dragging through his long tresses, only to realise how wet they were. His stomach twisted itself in knots – over the stillness, over the sudden shift. 

“Lancelot—” 

Between one blink and the next, he realised that it wasn’t a red tint of the sun at all. 

It was blood. 

It was trickling down the palm of his hand, down his wrist. It was splattered on his face like tiny freckles and— 

“—wake _up.”_

The sound of snapping fingers jolted him awake. His eyes shot open, body jerking to the side – chain rattling as he heaved himself half-way up the bed and kicked out his foot, all in the span of a few frantic heartbeats. A rough palm caught his ankle, stilling him. 

“Easy—easy— _woah_ , you’re safe—you were dreaming.”

It was Gawain. Confusion painted his features, eyes blown wide and shoulders squared. Between one ragged breath and the next, Lancelot tugged his leg free and Gawain mercifully let go. The chain rattled once more as Lancelot shifted and pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed. Beneath his feet, the floorboards were cold despite his socks. 

“I am not going to hurt you. Do you remember where you are?” Gawain asked, voice rough with worry. He stood an arm’s length away, facing Lancelot with his palms held up. 

Lancelot scrubbed a hand over his face as his eyes darted around, taking a quick account of the place. The slanted roof and scant furniture were nothing like the hazy sunlit shadows from the dream, because it had been just that – a dream, but it had felt jarringly real. In the same way he could feel the pulse in his groin, hard cock mercifully hidden by the blanket bunched up in his lap, he could almost feel the ghostly touch of Gawain’s lips on his neck. 

It took him another moment before he nodded in reply. He pulled on his shirt that had twisted itself awkwardly around his body through the night and combed a hand through his hair; it was loose and tangled from the pin coming out. 

Gawain’s gaze was a tangible weight on him and the silence didn’t make it any easier to bear. Lancelot glanced up, noticing the wariness glittering in his eyes as the knight took a step back and right into that early morning light that filtered through the open shutters of the window.

He was… breathtakingly real. Firm and strong and on-guard, but still dangerously beautiful with his hair still in disarray after sleep, soft waves framing the worried eyes. 

“Do you need anything? Water?” he asked after a moment’s silence, gesturing at the desk where last night’s jug and mugs stood neatly tucked away on a pair of maps. There was no red on his face. None at all, just the golden tint of tanned skin and his eyes were the usual green, the _normal_ green; specks of gold and grey in it. 

Lancelot felt that sharp, greedy tug in his belly at the sight. His face grew hot as he nodded once, grateful that Gawain was quick to dart into action. The gurgling of water sounded deafeningly loud and Lancelot curled a bit, hugging the blanket in his lap closer. Breathe, he needed to breathe. 

Still feeling his heart pound furiously in his chest, he let out a shaky breath. The chain rattled once more as he ran a hand over his face as if to take the spiderweb of the nightmare off. 

The creaking floorboards announced Gawain’s return and Lancelot looked up to find the clay mug right before his face. Distantly, he noticed the tremble in his hands as he reached for it and took the first careful sip under the knight’s surveying gaze. 

The water was blissfully cold and sank like a stone in his stomach, extinguishing that ember of arousal. Realising that Gawain wasn’t looking at him anymore, he followed his gaze to the iron links of the chain glimmering over the soft linen. 

Gawain scratched his beard, nodding at the shackle. “Let me unchain you – unless, of course, you are going to kick again?” 

As Lancelot lowered the mug, he saw an uptick of the man’s lips; a mere suggestion of a smile. He wanted to reassure him, but the words got stuck in his throat, the dream still too vivid in his head and so, he just shook his head.

There was something about the way Gawain looked – it was such a stark contrast compared to the dream. Every sordid detail washed over Lancelot in the blink of an eye, the warmth on his face transforming into a fiery burn as the first tendrils of shame crawled in. But beneath it all, the pang of longing persisted.

Desperate to smother it, he wrapped the blanket tight around himself as if the thin fabric would shield him from everything he felt, only holding out his hand for Gawain to put the key in the shackle and twist. 

When the lock clicked open and the knight glanced at him, the tendrils unfurled further, spreading all the way to his chest. He could almost see himself redden like a beat – the burning heat said as much. Frantic, he couldn’t help but wonder whether Gawain had known what he’d been dreaming about. 

Heart suddenly pounding hard again, Lancelot handed back the mug. A cold shiver ran down his body as he tucked the blanket tighter around his shoulders, minding his sprained wrist that was only now coming awake along with the angry pull of the stitches on his side. 

He realised that Gawain still just stood before him with the cup in hand – unmoving in the alarming way that made Lancelot straighten as he looked up at him. It took everything, and then some to not squirm as the knight sized him up for another moment. 

“I’m going to touch you – don’t bite,” he said finally, reaching out to brush the back of his hand against Lancelot’s forehead.

Another wave of goosebumps erupted over Lancelot’s body and he shuddered in his seat. Gawain’s hand was almost chilly against his skin. 

“You are burning up.” Gawain’s voice lowered when he continued: “What was the dream about?” 

“Just a nightmare,” Lancelot mumbled, voice hoarse with sleep.

“Better to get the day started then—makes it easier to forget,” Gawain said with a kind smile. “You ready to get cleaned up?”

“Are we going to the lake?”

“No, there is water boiling downstairs—felt like we could treat ourselves to a warm bath rather than a cold one.”

Lancelot had yearned for a dip in the lake yesterday, but the idea of a hot bath perked him up at once. He pushed himself up with caution, awkwardly adjusting his trousers that dug in – to say that he felt rested was a stretch; the more he awoke, the more he wanted to go back to bed. His skin tingled with shivers.

Gawain was already by the door, gesturing for him to follow. Moving to join him, Lancelot threw a glance at the pile of soiled garments from yesterday – hopefully they still had some spares. The house was oddly quiet as they made their way downstairs – it smelled of porridge and honey, of fire and yeast, but as they dove into the grand kitchen, it was empty. A hearty fire crackled in the hearth and the pot in there simmered quietly. He couldn’t help but slow his steps as they passed the fireplace, crossing arms over his chest in an effort to stay warm.

The door leading to the backyard opened with a squeak, letting in a cold gust of air that sent Lancelot shuddering again. Gawain glanced over his shoulder, cocking one eyebrow as he smiled. 

“You don’t have to help lugging water, but stick around and get some fresh air—it might be good for you.” 

Lancelot breathed in deeply, smelling the pine and moss from the forest just beyond the backyard. “I can help.”

“You still seem shaken; sit and take a few deep breaths – perhaps talk a little.”

“Talk?”

Gawain winked at him. “If you want,” he said as he walked down the steps and toward the well. He picked up one of the buckets and shrugged, “or don’t, I don’t mind the silence.” 

Lancelot hovered on the small stairs – four steps, to be exact. He gingerly sat down on the top one, scooting to the side the best he could to avoid being in the way as Gawain hauled bucket after bucket indoors. He wasn’t sure what to say – talking had never been his strong suit and probably never would be. Taking refuge in the idea that Gawain didn’t mind the quiet at least, he let the chilly morning air sober him up, the last traces of the vivid dream disappearing by each deep breath.

Not a cloud veiled the bright blue sky. Even though it was so cold that his teeth almost chattered, the crisp air and golden light filled the hole left behind by the nightmare with a tentative hopefulness. They were back, the mission was done and perhaps even the weather was finally letting up; bodily aches, nightmare and fever aside, it felt like the beginning of something new. Yesterday’s promise of possibly getting his swords loomed at the back of his mind. 

As he watched Gawain appear rather untroubled as he pulled up the fifth bucket of water, Lancelot found himself grateful instead of feeling useless. The last thing he wanted was to tear the stitches and agitate any aches further – he wanted to heal, and if need be, he wanted to fight. 

Gawain groaned as he hauled the rope. The door opened behind Lancelot and he twisted cautiously, only to find Kaze looking down at him. 

“Good morning,” she said suddenly in an even voice, holding his gaze steadily. 

Lancelot swallowed around an achingly dry throat and bowed his head in greeting.

“Heard you helped the boys,” she continued, tilting her head to the side. “Good. Keep it up.”

It sounded like a threat. She always made the most innocent phrases seem that way and it made her terrifying. Perhaps it was revenge for when they had fought, back when he’d captured Gawain, back when he’d still run with the Paladins. He would have killed her, but luck was on her side; she’d stumbled over a root after a too-wide strike and lost her balance, falling right down the slanted ridge. He’d seen her roll down the long, steep slope, hitting both rock and tree, and had firmly believed her dead once she’d finally reached the bottom. 

But she’d made it and now he was convinced that she wouldn’t mind a rematch. For as brief as their fight had been, she’d been a formidable opponent. Nothing like Gawain – nothing could possibly rival him – but still good enough that it made him think twice about any plans of escape should she be around.

“I will,” he promised in a low voice.

Kaze gave him a curt nod and moved down the stairs, but stopped at the last step and turned back to him. She paused and cocked her head, a small smirk ticking the corner of her mouth up as she met his eyes. “You don’t look half as menacing when you sleep.”

Lancelot let out a sharp breath, lips pressed into a taut line. He couldn’t tell if it was just due to the fever that he broke out in a cold sweat. His tongue turned to lead as he sat there, watching Kaze as a hare would a wolf. The sense of peace from before vanished. 

“Stop your glaring, it was a joke,” Kaze shook her head, half-turning back to Gawain. “I simply came by earlier to check on him.” 

With that, she jumped down the step and went to meet Gawain half-way, tugging one of the buckets out of his hand with a wry smile. Dumbfounded, Lancelot blinked, but before he could think about how uneasy he was at the thought that Kaze had managed to open their creaking door without alerting him, Gawain nodded for him to get up. 

Lancelot let them pass first before he slowly pushed himself up, tossing the last glance at the backyard and the treeline before he went inside. Trying to stay out of their way, he sat down on a chair by the kitchen table. 

Gawain must have already started a fire when he was still asleep, and the first pot was already hissing beneath the lid. He watched as Gawain carried the steaming pot into the adjoining bedroom where the basin was. From where Lancelot sat by the table he could see the steam rising as Gawain poured – the sight almost made his skin itch; he couldn’t wait to get clean.

Lancelot dragged a hand through his hair, only now noticing the stack of clothes and towels on the table. Perched on top was a bar of soap that smelled _heavenly._ Flowery and sweet, much like the summer months that were past them. 

When Gawain returned to refill the pot with another bucketful of water, the waiting began. As Gawain and Kaze argued over a small piece of parchment that seemed to be the schedule for training, Lancelot took in the quirks of the kitchen. The widow seemed a pious woman, but if her humble abode was anything to go by, she wasn’t that humble. It was a lavish setup with elaborately carved shelves and a wide oven; the space was impeccable except for some black feathers on the floor and—

—were those their boots?

Lancelot blinked twice, but those were indeed their boots sitting close to the hearth – wiped free from mud and left to dry. He glanced at the floor, realising that the widow surely hadn’t appreciated them walking in like wet dogs in the middle of the night; now as he thought about it, there hadn’t been a speck of mud to be seen on the stairs either. Perhaps Gawain had fixed it in the same way he’d fixed the fire before Lancelot had woken up.

Soon, as he exhausted the things to look at, his gaze naturally drifted back to the company who had joined him at the table. At one point, Gawain glanced back at him and Lancelot fidgeted, realising he must have been too obvious, but the man just smirked and looked away. Sometime after that, the pot whistled again and interrupted their discussion. 

Gawain pushed himself up, hauled the pot into the room and filled the basin, diluting the steaming water with two buckets of water from the well. After that, he turned to him with an almost giddy expression. 

“Shall we? C’mon, bring the clothes and towels and let's go.” 

Kaze shot him a glance as Lancelot pushed himself up, but she remained by the table among the parchments. He felt oddly like a squire as he bundled the clothes, towels and bar of soap in hand and followed him into Kaze’s bedroom. As Gawain shut the door, trapping them inside the narrow chamber, Lancelot felt his heart speed up. He sat the bundle of things down on the desk and when he turned back to the basin and Gawain, the knight was already well on his way out of his clothes. In the next moment, he heard the deep, content moan mixing with the light stir of Gawain lowering himself into the bath.

Desperate to think of something else—to feel something other than that flutter in his stomach, he rehearsed a short prayer against temptation to himself and took note of a very peculiar figurine on Kaze’s desk. Still, the dream teased at his mind and he stole a glance, but at once he felt the colour rise to his cheeks. He looked away again as he sat down on the chair next to the desk, hoping that Gawain hadn’t noticed. 

“We will have to get you a hairbrush with that mane you have,” he remarked, sounding breathless almost. 

“Uh-huh,” he mumbled, raising a hand to smooth over the bird nest on his head. He did his best to finger comb it, eyes desperately fixing on that figurine once more as he listened to Gawain soak himself – it was a lion with wings and a scorpion’s tail. 

“Pass me the soap, would you?”

Lancelot reached for the bar of soap on top of the towels and handed it to the man, very carefully keeping his head turned the other way. 

“Thank you,” Gawain said, voice warm and hearty in a way that made Lancelot’s stomach twist itself all over again. “You don’t want to cut it?”

“What?”

“Your hair.”

“No.”

“Shame. I'm great at shearing sheep,” Gawain said and Lancelot could almost hear how wide his smile was. For a long while, there was only the sound of a very naked Gawain, as he scrubbed furiously, water splashing and dripping. In the corner of his eye, Lancelot saw it trickle down the bare, golden skin, and felt his mouth go dry.

“You can start undressing—I’m almost done.”

The words made his heart skip a beat. As Lancelot half-turned where he sat on the chair, he accidentally caught a glimpse of the naked back and just as quickly spun around again. Feeling as if he sat on needles, he slowly pushed himself up and tugged off the shirt, lips pressed together tight. The stitches made themselves known as he pulled it over his head and let it fall to the floor. After that, he made quick work of getting the bandages off – the wound from the poisoned blade was dry and looked a little less angry, and to his surprise, the stitches hadn’t bled much during the night either. 

“How’s your head?” Gawain asked as Lancelot unlaced his trousers.

He swallowed dryly, voice low. “Good.”

“Still feeling dizzy?”

“It’s better,” he reassured all while realising that it _was_. Compared to yesterday, today’s vertigo was a smooth breeze – perhaps better than it had been in weeks. Even his headache was nothing but a low rumble, an easy thing to ignore much like thunder from afar. It was harder to ignore the thought that Gawain must be looking at him. His face burned as he toed off his socks and pulled down his trousers, quickly stepping out of them just when he heard the water splash, the undeniable sound of Gawain getting up.

“Hand me a towel,” he said and Lancelot made the horrible mistake of looking his way. 

Holy mother of _God_. 

Lancelot looked away so quickly that his neck hurt. Briefly, he wondered if nature was more generous with Fey in general, or if it was just Gawain who was so well-endowed. Feeling slightly light-headed again, he absent-mindedly reached for the towels on the desk and tossed one to Gawain. They had bathed together before, sure, but those were quick affairs–Lancelot had never seen him like _that,_ full-front view and not in a hurry. 

They swapped places without a word, Gawain stepping out of the bath and Lancelot edging closer to it, feeling even more acutely how _small_ the room was as he could almost feel the heat radiating off the man as he walked past. Feeling more feverish than before, Lancelot gingerly lowered himself into the still warm water with a deep sigh. He hurried to get rid of the sickly sweat and the last traces of road dust, working the soaped up cloth quickly over his skin as if that would calm the storm within him. 

“Need a hand?”

Startling, he all but dropped the soapy cloth into the water, and then clutched it tightly, meeting the green eyes.

“Your back,” Gawain explained with a slight frown. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Nothing,” he hurried to say, forcing himself to loosen the tight grasp. With a sinking heart, Lancelot realised that indeed twisting all the way around with the stitches pulling at his every move wasn't the best idea. He could have tried, but with how he was told repeatedly not to do such things…

Still unable to force a coherent response out, Lancelot extended his hand without a word.

Gawain took the offered cloth and crouched next to him with nothing but the towel tied around his waist. “Looks like the scars have faded a little,” he said as he wrung the cloth. 

“Maybe,” Lancelot mumbled. He hadn’t seen himself in a mirror in a long time, and he didn’t want to either, let alone his back. 

“Don’t they pull? When you fight, I mean.”

“No.” His stomach twisted in knots with shame and fluttered with anticipation at the same time as he hunched on himself, but the first touch to his back was surprisingly gentle. 

“Easy,” he heard Gawain mutter, quiet and soothing. “Not going to hurt you.” 

With every careful swipe, he felt some of the fear and embarrassment leech out and finally, he exhaled slowly, letting his shoulders fall a bit. Gawain hummed, warm and low, and then his hands stilled.

“Well,” he said, “maybe a bit. There is a really nasty bruise here on your shoulder.”

“It’s nothing,” Lancelot assured him and squeezed his eyes shut. But the pain was barely there, negligible and it wasn’t the reason that made his heart race. He didn’t let himself examine that feeling, and instead furtively dug the nails into his ankle to distract himself, and focused on swirls of the soap dissipating in the water.

However, there was only so much he could filter out. When Gawain ran the cloth up his spine, he shuddered and immediately flushed, pulling away.

“Did I hurt you?”

Heart racing, Lancelot shook his head fervently but kept silent.

“Is it because of the nightmare that you are so jumpy?”

He frowned, drawing his knees closer to his chest. “I’m not.”

“You are,” Gawain countered calmly and pulled back, twisting the water out of the cloth. “More than usual, I mean.”

For a short while, Lancelot remained silent as he sat with his head bowed, lathering his hair and considering how to get himself out of that trap. Sharing his thoughts was out of the question, but if he kept on denying everything and lying, that fragile trust they had been building would be severely damaged. And he needed it – needed someone at his side. 

At last, he exhaled heavily and ran a wet hand over his face, pushing the dripping curls out of his face. “Yes.” 

“Sure you don’t want to tell me what it was about? Get it off your chest.”

Lancelot shook his head.

“Alright,” Gawain said simply, and then leaned over to grab a half-empty bucket, hoisting it up. “Close your eyes.” 

He obeyed, waiting as the lukewarm water rushed over his head before he glanced up. The knight met his eyes with a vaguely bemused expression and reached for a towel, gesturing for him to get up.

Looking away, he squeezed water out of his hair before pushing himself up to grab the towel. As Gawain passed it to him, his gaze fell low for a beat, and Lancelot’s knuckles turned white. But in the next moment, the knight turned around without a word to reach for a stack of clothes and began dressing. 

Mind blank and loud all at once, Lancelot wasn’t sure what to make of the gesture – it brought a semblance of privacy, and yet he still made sure not to dally as he dried himself. Chest filled with the panicked need to get dressed, he patted over to the remaining stack of clothes and pulled back, awkwardly clutching the garments to his chest as he dropped the towel. 

Mindful of the stitches that still smarted at every daring move, he pulled on the brown cotton trousers as quickly as he could. Feeling a little bit more at ease over no longer being bare, he patted the stitches dry and watched the towel, relieved to see that there wasn’t any blood coming to stain the pale fabric. Between the fresh air and the bath, the fever almost felt like a distant thing. 

“Do you need fresh bandages?” Gawain asked next to him, words muffled as he pulled his tunic over his head. 

“It’s good.”

“You sure?” Gawain gave him a glance over his shoulder. “The healers will probably want to dress the stitches again.” 

Lancelot hummed as he put the towel down and reached for the tunic. Once the green linen of the well-worn tunic enveloped him in blessed warmth, he let out a soft sigh and shuddered. After that, he tugged on a dark blue gambeson. 

“Can I look? Not going to swoon?” Gawain asked. 

Scoffing, Lancelot nodded as he fiddled with the last of the lacing, and then swore at himself. But when he looked up, the other was already studying him, leaning against the desk with a wry smile on his lips and arms crossed over his broad chest.

“Looking good. Thought it would suit you.”

With a hesitant smile, Lancelot fastened the belt and inspected the resulting attire. Frankly, it was more colour than he had worn since he had been a child. He pulled back his wet hair over the shoulder, reminding himself that he needed to head back upstairs to fetch the hairpin later. 

Gawain’s smile grew a bit wider as he tilted his head. “You’re presentable for the finest establishment in the town.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. What did you think about the dream? ;)


	11. The Hand That Feeds

The finest establishment was, in fact, the town keep; as they strode across the square, the cold wind chased their cloaks as furiously as a stray dog. While they were still around the corner, Lancelot caught a whiff of freshly baked bread streaming from half-open doors of the kitchens. They were greeted by two Tusks nibbling at a loaf – night guards, judging from how they reported to Gawain in a rapid mixture of Sylvan and common. 

Lancelot remembered them from the night before. Their hair was streaked silver, faces creased with wrinkles; one of them had marks on their face, a myriad of dots and circles and lines that surely meant something, but apparently not enough to get them promoted above guard duty. They spared him a cursory glance, but paid him no mind beyond that as he sat down by the table a few seats away. 

The conversation livened as Gawain kindled the fire and put a pot on. They talked town affairs while Lancelot sat quietly in his seat, fingering the fresh strip of linen around his wrist as he listened in. A sharp herbal scent wafted off the bandage, tickling his nose until he had to tug on the sleeve of the gambeson in an attempt to mask the smell. 

On their way here, they had dropped by the inn and Polly had deemed the fever not a major concern. Scarily quickly, she had redressed his wounds, slathered him with some healing salve and poured some more bitter, mould-tasting potions down his throat. The aftertaste still rested on his tongue, but at least he was promised a quicker recovery. 

A wooden plate stacked high with crisp, red apples stood in front of him – the sight sent his stomach groaning and mouth watering. Yesterday’s midnight snack had hardly filled the void left after days of eating nothing but dried jerky and whatever small game they had managed to hunt. Sinking his teeth into sweet-smelling fruit was tempting.

But before he could reach for one, a feeble meow dragged his gaze low. A calico cat jumped effortlessly onto the bench next to him, purring loudly and already kneading with its front paws as it practically tossed itself against Lancelot’s hand, begging for scratches. He couldn’t stop a small smile from growing as he gently stroke the cat that soon jumped over into his lap. It had become routine for them to have their meals here at the town keep and this speckled kitty had quickly learnt that he would let it lick the bowl afterwards.

The warm, welcoming kitchen felt more like home than back at the widow’s house. Perhaps it was the cat that made it so, or the simple fact that they weren’t intruding in someone else’s dwelling. The keep’s kitchen was built to feed a decent company – there were two hearths at either end of the spacious room and an oven big enough to fit an ox; the long table they currently sat at could easily fit twenty men. In the domed ceiling there was string after string of tied up drying herbs, spreading their fragrance far and wide – thyme, fennel, and peppermint, among many others. 

With a cat in his lap that stopped purring whenever he stopped scratching, Lancelot listened even less to the conversation between Gawain and the guards. They were talking in Sylvan now, and the man with the marks on his face was gesturing wildly, hands flying through the air, but it didn’t seem too serious – not if the curve to Gawain’s lips said anything. 

The door slammed open, startling the cat in his lap and in rushed Pym wide-eyed; her cheeks blushed and braid dishevelled. 

“Finally,” she breathed out, “that new guy, Guiscard, blew up the alembic – there was glass _eve-ry-whe-re.”_

Eyes crinkling, Gawain flashed her a crooked smile and the guards perked up as well, light-hearted teases flying both ways as Pym grinned and joined them by the table. However, as lively as their conversation was, the guards yawned more and more, both spent by the night shift. Soon enough they bid their goodbyes and left, leaving the three of them to eat. 

The pot was boiling in earnest now, a mouth-watering smell that deepened the sucking hole in Lancelot’s stomach – even the cat in his lap folded its ears back at a particularly loud groan before it resumed its purring. Pym and Gawain eyed the pot as well with rapt attention as they talked. Lancelot, in turn, watched them.

Pym treated Gawain to a flurry of anecdotes about her adventures in caring for the wounded. The more Lancelot listened, the more his brows crawled up, their ascent accelerated by each remark.

 _“_ The other day this guy, Bjarke – you know, that one who only really speaks Norse? He came to me and asked, all shy, for decapitation medicine because – wait, stop laughing, it gets better – he was feeling full of shit. I just stood there, gaping at him, and he was getting redder and redder, and _then_ I realised he was asking for a constipation medication.”

“Oh, oh, and you know how town women also started coming to us, right? So, imagine: one of their lasses rushes in, wailing like a banshee, Polly tumbles from upstairs in only her nightgown, looking like a pissed ghost herself. Turns out, the girl’s friend is giving birth, and there is trouble – of course, Polly goes to help. And when she arrives, it turns out they wanted to, I am not joking, lure the baby out with something sweet – so they put honey all over her...”

These, and most of the other things she had said struck him as rather cynical and frankly inappropriate for such a young woman, but he supposed it would be strange if she had acted like the nuns he had known. Even though it had taken him aback, he had to admit the girl had spirit. 

What she didn’t have was the height enough to reach the bowl from the shelf even as she stood on her tiptoes. Lancelot glanced around, realising Gawain was too distracted by making sure their breakfast didn't burn to come to her aid. He carefully ushered the cat out of his lap and pushed himself up to move closer on silent feet, reaching over Pym’s shoulder.

With a strained squeak, she jumped to the side and he heard what must have been Gawain dropping the lid of the pot, followed by a muffled swear. In the awkward silence that ensued, Lancelot slowly held the stack of bowls out. When Pym glanced down at them and then back at his face, her eyes wide, he couldn't help but arch his brow, and the girl narrowed her eyes.

“Gawain, can we put a bell on him?” she muttered, snatching the bowls, and then promptly shuffled further away from him, edging towards the knight. “Also, don’t just stand there – help me out.”

“Oi, is that how you treat the victorious warriors?” Gawain shook his head just as he moved to meet her.

Rolling her eyes, Pym blew away a stray lock of hair that fell over her forehead and smirked. “I am sure you have plenty of admirers to greet you with ardent kisses.”

“That would be a pleasant scene, indeed,” Gawain sighed with affected sadness as he poured the porridge.

Brandishing her spoon at him, Pym scoffed and cocked her brow before taking her portion. “Well, perhaps you should bring me some fern. Bate is gaining fast on you, you know.”

Silently sitting back on the bench, Lancelot glanced at Gawain's face, wondering what his reaction would be. He wasn’t sure whether they were joking or not, and the crooked smile he’d seen could have still meant a lot of things.

“How ever will I live now,” Gawain deadpanned as he settled next to him and set two steaming bowls down, sliding one his way. With a grateful nod, Lancelot stirred the thick, hearty oatmeal, waiting for it to cool down and in the meantime listened to the two Feys’ banter. The calico cat quickly returned to his lap, eagerly staring at the bowl. 

He had always seen women be praised for their modesty, but Gawain seemed to enjoy that particular kind of haughty brashness that Pym possessed. He listened to her with crossed arms and without saying much himself, but every time he cracked a wry grin, it was the genuine one, the kind that crinkled his eyes. Every time, Lancelot felt the corners of his own lips twitch slightly as though his face was a mirror, but it was utterly impossible not to reflect that unabashed, easy mirth that Gawain exuded.

As Pym was breaking a hunk of rustic bread, he tried to remember if he had seen her back in Dewdenn, but his mind came up blank. She pointedly paid him no attention, but had made sure to sit as far as possible, the same way she always put some distance between them whenever they had to share a table during their labour at the healers.

His eyes had surely lingered on her for too long, but thankfully, she was too engrossed in the conversation to notice. When she bent over to pass a piece of bread to Gawain, the soft ringlets of her flaming hair fell over her shoulder, and the knight shot a hand out to catch them before they ended up on the plate. 

While they laughed, Lancelot looked away with a faint frown tugging at his brows. He was unsure why it bothered him so much – the sight of those unruly locks spilling over the knuckles that just yesterday brushed against his own throat. Perhaps because it was indecent to wear such long hair down, not to mention obviously impractical, but then his seething musings were interrupted again by Gawain’s low, warm voice.

Pushing tangled, useless thoughts out of his mind, Lancelot listened closely to what he said, all while trying to keep his curiosity under wraps by pretending to look at the dish in front of him. It was obvious Gawain still chose his words carefully, but already he spoke easier than before their foray into the woods.

From what he said, it seemed the Ice King troops were hell-bent on leaving no one alive, which was to be expected given their alliance with Father. At least they couldn't track the Fey down as well anymore, unless they had finally managed to tame those wolves a fellow brother had preached high and low could track better than him. 

God Almighty, if only he had known how his attempt at getting Percival out would end up. It wouldn’t have changed what he had done, but perhaps he would have exercised more caution – or at least had had a chance to fortify his soul for what was to come. As it was, he had leapt into the dark waters, expecting it to be a shallow lake and found himself in the middle of a sea. 

He dared not to ask again about their whereabouts, or how the Fey planned to deal with all the threats – all of those things would be deemed a weapon in his hands. There was, however, one piece of information that would probably be harmless enough to be shared with him. He waited until they fell silent, polishing off the remains of their breakfast. 

Gawain appeared thoroughly immersed in his meal, outright wolfing it down. Some of the tension drained out of his shoulders and the air around the man felt lighter. Bracing himself, Lancelot shifted a bit and cleared his throat, to which the knight hummed questioningly around the spoon.

“Can I know what day it is?” Lancelot asked in a hushed voice.

“The last day of _Weod–mōnaþ,”_ Gawain answered immediately, which… didn't clarify the matters. The name was an unfamiliar one. 

Lancelot shifted again, unsure whether he should continue pestering the man, but Gawain picked up on his confusion without any words exchanged.

“Weod–mōnaþ is our name for August,” he clarified, tilting his bowl to scrape at the last dredges of the porridge.

The last day of summer then, Lancelot thought. His face brightened as he realised less time had passed than he feared. It had been just a month and a half since his escape. The delirious monotony of recovering from the wounds, followed by the day-long interrogations and later the maddening feeling of always being closely watched must have warped his sense of time. But on the other hand, the harsh weather and the red trees would have had anyone confused.

“Is it always so cold here in August?” he asked softly. If yes, then he really should have escaped earlier, back in Francia.

Gawain stiffened, his hands going still, and then shrugged and put the bowl away with a dull thud. “No, though I don’t know yet what’s wrong this year.”

Unwilling to upset him further, Lancelot fell quiet again and tried to assess his own progress. If it was just that short time, then it wasn’t that bad his body was still so sore and unwieldy. After all, he had been on the brink of death when Gawain dragged him into the camp and only managed to climb out of bed after several weeks of delirium.

The bench scraped against the floor as Gawain stood up and went to help himself to a second portion. Lancelot shook his head firmly when he raised a bowl at him with a questioning lift of the brows, but couldn’t help a tiny smile as the warmth mellowed out the cold in his bones. 

The heat of the hearth, the scent of freshly baked bread, it all reminded him a bit of the breakfasts back in Francia when he was young. The nuns had taken a liking to the polite orphan and so he had often lingered with them if the strict schedule of his training had allowed. 

When Gawain came back and still decided to sit next to him, Lancelot felt his tentative smile grow a bit wider, and bowed his head, absently stirring the last bits of the porridge. It did nothing to wipe the smile off his face, but it was fine. For a short time, he let his mind stay blissfully blank. 

However, the next words that came out of Pym’s mouth shattered the amiable silence.

“So. How come you know our greetings but not the month names?”

Seeing the trap but unable to avoid it, Lancelot tensed, looking up at her with a frown. He tried frantically to come up with a neutral enough response, but as he wasn’t going to share his life story with the obnoxious girl, there was no way around saying the other truth.

“I didn’t need them.”

“Right, because you couldn't use them to catch people,” she remarked casually, putting the spoon down. He bristled, narrowing his eyes, but before it could escalate, the door opened and a yawning Moon Wing girl with ruffled hair slipped in. 

Upon seeing them, she froze, eyes going wide. The irises were bright, smooth yellow, Lancelot noticed with unease, like those of an owl. She looked like one as well, cheeks covered with soft brown feathers. 

“Quiet day, Mar’eva,” sounded from the side, and with a startle, he glanced back at Gawain, who merely raised his eyebrows with a pointed look. Realising he must have unsettled the girl with his staring, Lancelot averted his eyes.

“Quiet day, Sir—Pym,” she grinned shyly and pointed at the plate she was holding. “Supper?”

Pym stretched her neck to look at what they were offered. “Ooh, are those…”

“Your favourite, yes.” Mar’eva reddened a bit and cast a quick, unsure look at Gawain who simply shrugged. 

“Help yourself, lasses. Just Pym, for Arawn’s sake, don’t choke,” he smirked, leaning back with an amused look on his face.

“Didn’t know you cared,” she gasped in mock surprise, pressing a hand against her chest. 

Lancelot glanced between them, his forehead creased with a worried frown. However, Gawain just rolled his eyes and crossed his arms.

“Oh no, not at all,” he said breezily with a bored look on his face, “but every healer counts, even a bad one.”

Pym flushed, replied with a very succinct, cutting phrase in Norse, and then slid down the bench to hunt the pastry down with an indeed far more focused look than she ever wore in healer’s quarters. Lancelot tracked her for a moment, seething inwardly, but then Gawain’s voice distracted him.

“Don’t mind her words,” he said in an undertone as he watched Pym, too. He still seemed more fond than stern, despite an exasperated look on his face. “She doesn’t know how young you were.”

“But the others do.”

Gawain shook his head. “Only the council and the ones who were in that forest. And I asked them to keep it this way.”

Lancelot swallowed thickly, hands balling into fists. The fact that he had been but a child when the Church got their hands on him had been the only reason for Fey not to execute him where he stood. A silver lining was that he wouldn’t have to remember about this part of his past again for a while.

“I appreciate it,” he muttered, wringing his hands and staring at the old mug stains gleaming dimly on the dark wood of the table. It was a solace to know that at least some of his vulnerability was hidden from the eyes of the others.

He hadn’t told anyone – in fact, not even Gawain. The man had seemed to figure it out on his own, only asking him about it once; a short, simple question, right before the first hearing with the council had taken place. It had been awful to even confirm that guess, but thankfully no more questions had followed. Had it been otherwise, Lancelot wasn’t sure he would have made it through without losing his mind completely.

“They would accept you faster if they knew what you went through.”

 _I don’t care about their acceptance one bit_ , he thought, a knee-jerk reaction when faced with the prospect of the other Fey. After all, he had been an outcast for as long as he could remember, and now that kind of defence came as natural as breathing. 

People, Lancelot had found, couldn't be disappointing if you didn't expect anything from them. Besides, there was no conceivable way they would forgive him anyway, and his wounded pride kept whispering that there was no point in begging for it then. 

The detached numbness he felt was a blessing that kept him afloat. But it wasn’t wise to let others know. Especially not Gawain.

“What I had done is worse.”

The knight just hummed softly. “Yes—doesn’t mean you haven’t lost a lot yourself. Even though you survived, you were still robbed of a great many things. I don’t say you should bare all of your weak spots,” Gawain looked at him and sighed. “But don’t starve and deny yourself simple things out of guilt.”

With that, he left Lancelot to his stunned silence. A speculative look appeared on his face as he glanced down the table to where Pym whispered animatedly with Mar’eva as they both nibbled on the treats heaped high on the large wooden plate. 

For the Moonwing girl, it was probably around midnight, and she seemed glad to spice her late-night snacking with a bit of gossip. Once again, Gawain and he seemed to be the topic if the quick curious looks thrown their way were anything to go by. 

While Lancelot clenched a hand he kept under the table into a fist, Gawain just grinned and pointed first at the plate, then at himself, raising his eyebrows in a pleading expression. When Pym nodded, he leaned back contentedly and shot Lancelot a look. Unsure of what to say, he averted his eyes, glancing at the pretzels as well.

They looked enticing, and he had always been fond of anything sweet; a weakness that didn't seem to go away no matter how much priests preached to him about the virtue of humble food. He considered asking for one but quickly abandoned the idea.

Instead, he pulled himself together and looked back at Gawain, startled to see he seemed to have been watching him the entire time. Tilting his head, the knight spoke again.

“Let me put it like this – if you want to embrace someone, you have to lower your defences. Both of you.”

Inhaling sharply, Lancelot thought back to the way Gawain had turned his bare back on him just this morning. Granted, he had been weak and confused, but the swords were still within his reach.

“Is that what you are doing?” he clarified, barely audible, heart hammering in his chest as his fingers stiffened, digging into the sensitive hollow of the knee joint until it hurt.

Gawain shifted beside him, their shoulders brushing. A rueful smile tugged at the corner of his lips when he spoke. “Yes – at least I am starting to.”

That profound declaration was so out of place that Lancelot was taken back by the force of impact, forgetting for a moment that there was anyone but the two of them at that table. It didn't matter – not if Gawain truly meant what he said. 

“Eat, Lancelot,” Gawain ordered gently, bumping their shoulders with a wry grin. “It is getting cold.” There was a pause, a quick glance down to the cat in his lap before he added, “And don’t feed that cat half your breakfast.” 

Raising the spoon to his mouth, Lancelot didn't even feel the taste. The doubt clouded his heart; it was hard to believe Gawain could really feel inclined to trust him. 

But the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to take a leap of faith. Gawain was often blunt, outright harsh even, but that brutal honesty meant his kindness was just as genuine as his scorn. Lancelot blinked rapidly as his shoulders sagged, and then dared a careful look at the knight. 

His face didn't reveal all that much, the tired lines of it carefully arranged into the familiar indifferent mask, while his eyes… Even in the hands of Brother Salt, Gawain, no matter how much he had put a brave face on, was simply too out of it, too bruised and broken to gather up all of his spiteful strength. But now he had it back, and the sheer intensity of his gaze astounded Lancelot. 

The knight was a force to be reckoned with and marvelled at. Having him on his side would have been an honour.

But the whispers that reached his ears, the pointed looks others gave them, they all weighed heavily on his conscience. As much as he craved protection, at least he could try to make it less of a burden – at least, that was the thought that passed through his mind when the girls snorted again where they stood over by the hearth. 

Lancelot pried his gaze away, glancing back to the knight and asked hushedly: “When do you think the elders will give me my swords back?” 

Gawain chuckled, reaching out to take an apple and biting into it with a juicy crunch. “Eager, are you? Don’t get your hopes up too much, they still have to decide in your favour.”

“Will they say no?”

“They might,” Gawain said with a shrug. “And then I will just keep hounding them. Does it matter if it’s the old ones?”

It mattered a lot. He had Percival to thank for picking them up after the fight with the Trinity Guard, but he hadn’t expected to see them again. The sight of a Paladin blade was hardly a desired one in camp and with the forge just by the stables… A part of him believed they had just melted them, the costly steel and perfect balance be damned. 

“They are finely crafted,” he said without looking up, fingers idly following the lines in the wood; the cat headbutted his wrist, eagerly asking for more scratches. “And I know them… unlike the month names.”

“Would hardly take you any time to learn, there are just twelve,” Gawain snorted, and then fell silent for a moment, studying his face. “Alright, time to talk about the future it seems. As you probably guessed,” he continued, leaning back, “I have a plan. But what you might not realise is that you have a say in it as well.”

“You know better,” Lancelot muttered, and added after a short pause, “I just don’t want to cause any further unrest.”

“The Guard is getting used to you. It’s helping that you are seen with Kaze or me,” Gawain noted and then took another bite of the apple. “And I’ll find someone suitable to teach you the language, soon.”

Once the vague shapes of the future consolidated into something orderly, noise filled Lancelot’s head, but… it was a good one. Learning the language would give him a better chance to make amends, to redeem himself. It was more than he expected would happen, especially given how such little time had passed, but he supposed the mission had changed things – proved him to be somewhat trustworthy at least. 

Lancelot petted the cat in his lap more slowly as he asked about the part of the plan that was perhaps the most intimidating. “When will I be teaching others?”

“In a fortnight, when you are better,” Gawain replied and then frowned. “Alright with it?”

“Yes,” he forced himself to say, swallowing dryly. “It’s not that. But you are...”

“I am..?” Gawain prompted with a smile playing across his lips.

“Very kind,” he said quietly, “for telling me all this.” 

Gawain tilted his head. “And you are very welcome. Don’t worry, you will first train with me. Or do worry – Kaze also wished to get a rematch for that fight of yours.”

That was a terrifying prospect; he still hadn’t fully wrapped his mind around the idea of training others. “She is a… severe warrior,” he muttered under his breath, earning a soft chuckle from the knight.

“Which one of us was worse to fight?” he asked, genuine curiosity clear in his voice.

Lancelot paused. “You,” he breathed out after a beat, turning his head slightly to meet the other’s eyes. It took remarkable mental fortitude to hold his gaze when his mind was so muddled, but to his surprise, Gawain just grinned, sharp and easy.

“Don’t fret. I’ll go easy on you.”

Before he could catch himself, Lancelot answered his smile with a small one of his own. Unfortunately, their conversation was interrupted by the return of Pym, who slid back onto the bench, this time next to Gawain and with two pretzels clutched triumphantly in her hand. She passed one to the knight and then pushed another closer to him, and at his startled look, explained with a small shrug: “Squirrel says hi.”

They both turned in unison, following Pym’s brief nod. 

True to her words, Percival waved at them enthusiastically from the other side of the window, cheeks full with pastry as he clutched a half-eaten pretzel in his hand, eyes lit up with mischief, almost like he was ready to run off the moment they caught sight of him. But when Gawain called out for him, gesturing to join them, the little rascal rushed over at once, nimbly climbing over the window sill. 

It was a display of obedience he had reserved for the Green Knight and the Green Knight alone, even if it was still flavoured with his signature stubbornness. When he came closer, the reason for his reluctance to join them became glaringly obvious.

“What have you done this time, boy?” Gawain asked with fond exasperation as he tugged him close, wrapping his arms around the boy in a brief embrace and tilting his head to inspect the impressive black eye Percival was sporting. 

“Just showed some Man Bloods their place,” the boy scoffed – insolent as ever – before he bit into his pretzel with ravenous hunger.

“And yet I told you not to pick fights with the locals, didn’t I?” Gawain said as he shook his head, though the amusement on his face far outweighed the strictness.

Percival shot him an offended look. “I wasn’t picking fights! But they should have known better than mock a Fey when I was around.”

“Is that what they did?” Gawain quirked his brows and shifted a bit, to reach around the boy for another apple. 

“Yes. They called Yeva’s granddaughter a chicken,” Percival scoffed derisively. “Turns out it was them all along. Ran like ones, at least.”

Gawain hummed as though he sounded impressed, but the amusement was clear in his eyes when he exchanged a quick look with Pym over the boy’s head.

“I trust that they won’t bother her again?” he asked. 

“Aye,” the boy proudly turned his nose up and grinned sharply. “I made sure they will remember their lessons.”

With a snort of laughter, Gawain pulled away and returned to slowly but steadily devouring the rest of the apples. “And what about yours?”

“I’ll go there right after,” promised Percival begrudgingly. “Just wanted to see you. Arthur said you fought with raiders?”

Gawain nodded.

“How many?”

Gawain’s smile grew lopsided, almost wincing slightly. “Almost twenty.”

“Twenty raiders?!” The boy’s brows shot up and he whistled lowly before taking another bite and continuing with his mouth full. “You killed them all?”

“Stop eating like a rabid badger,” Gawain sighed. “Aye, killed a couple – but your friend over there finished more of them.”

“Not a friend,” Percival muttered under his breath, a frown marring his tiny face as he brushed off the crumbs and glanced his way. He slid onto the bench next to Pym. “How did you do it?”

“With a sword,” Lancelot replied evenly, refusing to engage into discussion of gore while they were eating. Percival scrunched his face as if to show how not funny he had found it, but Pym seemed to appreciate his tact at least. 

“Can we please stop talking about disembowelment? At least wait until I finish my dessert, you bastards.”

“Language,” Gawain said absently, and received three sideways glances at once, which he missed completely since his eyes were trained on the pots that lined one of the windows, tiny green leaves fluttering in the gentle breeze. Getting up, he walked over to it, leaning against the wall as he peered outside before glancing back at Pym. “How ever will I marry you off.”

“Yeah, good luck with that,” Percival mumbled under his breath, immediately receiving an outraged gasp from the maiden in question. With an eye roll, he deftly dodged her sharp elbow, stuck his tongue out and then turned away from Pym to face Lancelot.

“So – where did you get a sword?” he inquired suspiciously.

“Borrowed from Thaid.”

“And then used it to save his hide at least three times in five minutes,” Gawain remarked, still not taking his eyes off something outside the window. Caught in a stare-down, Lancelot couldn't glance to see what it was, as Percival hummed, putting his chin on his fist, and did his best to glare a hole through him.

“Alright,” he said, narrowing his eyes, “maybe an – an ally then. Not a brother, though.”

The boy pointed at him in a such a perfect imitation of the knight’s signature gesture, that Pym burst out laughing, promptly choking on a sneaky crumb. Even Gawain himself, who had joined them again, this time sitting on the bench next to the girl, guffawed as he reached out to pat her on the back. Lancelot, too, couldn’t help a faint smile, watching their antics.

“An ally,” he agreed calmly, meeting Percival’s eyes, who nodded solemnly.

Since Gawain had rescued them from the woods, the boy had trailed after the knight day and night like a particularly foul-mouthed duckling. Lancelot found it a bit amusing, but mostly heartbreaking because he knew the main reason why Percival kept guard even in the camp was because of him.

The moment he had regained consciousness enough to understand what others were saying, the boy had appeared at his side to tell him that he had seen their fight with Gawain. Mute with guilt, Lancelot could only stare back, and Percival had seemed almost apologetic for a moment, but he still had promised quietly that he wasn't going to give him a second chance at harming the knight. 

At first, Lancelot could do nothing else but nod silently, the words of apologies crowding behind his lips but unable to spill out. But as he had watched the child sit in silence, his heart ached when he saw how the boy was still guarded around him, how he hadn't taken his wary eyes off his hands for a moment. 

In halting, but no less genuine words, he gave an oath to never again raise a weapon against another Fey, unless to protect his life. Percival had watched with the same haunted eyes, and then had demanded an oath not to touch another Skyfolk at all, self-defence or not. With an uneasy, heavy heart, Lancelot had obliged.

Percival was good at putting a brave face on, but not good enough, and deep down Lancelot suspected it would have been better for the child to keep far from him. There was little he could give the boy but nightmares. 

Their relationship had turned even more odd when Percival told him he had saved his life when the boy was already a knight, and so he considered himself indebted. The boy was adamant about obeying the Fey Guard code, ignoring his quiet objections, and insisted on overseeing his recovery making sure it was unhindered by Lancelot not knowing the language. 

Or even that it was quickened – by pretzels, as it would be. He would take that.

The Skyfolk kept chattering happily, and their speech got gradually more interspersed with strange words that were still not Sylvan but he didn't understand them anyway. It must have been a local dialect of their village. Lancelot felt a strange pang at the thought and shifted uneasily. He tried to keep up the pretence of listening, but his eyes kept straying to the man at his side.

Gawain was gesturing with an apple core, entertaining Pym and Percival with a story of their foray into the woods. A wide grin bloomed on his face when they laughed, and the knight was distracted enough not to notice him staring, which left Lancelot to ponder in peace as he absently tore the pretzel into tiny pieces.

They would still taste the same, no matter what they looked like. 

When he put a piece of bread still clutched in his fingers gingerly on his tongue, he couldn't help a pang of disappointment. It didn’t taste sweet – more like spicy actually. Not what he wanted. 

Much like everything here, to be fair. Once again, he wondered what fate would have befallen him if he stayed with paladins, after all. Things hadn’t been looking great for Father, and consequently, for him as well. With the Trinity Guards, and that weasley Abbott sniffing around, they would have both ended up on a pyre, just like the old man had feared. But now he was left to deal with that mess alone, unprotected.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have abandoned him, Lancelot thought briefly, and then his eyes found Percival again. He watched how the boy shoved his tiny fist into the knight’s shoulder, and Gawain pretended to sway before catching the child’s hand in his much larger palm. 

His conspiratorial grin and the proud, flushed look on the young knight’s face made something long forgotten stir in Lancelot’s chest. The two in front of him had shown him more acceptance than the paladins ever did, and it must have meant something. 

Slowly, he put another chunk of the strange bread they baked into his mouth. Father, who he obeyed unquestioningly, threatened to take him down along with him for a single mistake. Abbott Wicklow, despite his obvious curiosity, was ready to dispose of him as if he was a rabid dog. Yet Gawain hadn't betrayed him. Not even when it would have given the knight the satisfaction of taking his long-standing enemy down with a single word. 

Lancelot swallowed and paused before reaching for another piece. Even the Fey boy whose entire family was slaughtered at his hands picked up a sword to fight at his side, rather than try breaking free on his own. Something was different about Fey, after all, something that permeated their entire life -- even their food, just like the tales told him. 

Caraway and dill, he realised, as the spices exploded on his tongue, that’s what they added. God, but the taste – the taste was so strange. He swallowed and paused again, trying to understand if he liked it or not, and finally decided he did. 

Demon–born or not, but these two Fey had kinder hearts than most good Christians he had met – unlike Lancelot, who had but an aching void in his chest. It seemed to grow within him with every sleepless night. 

Once again, he wondered if who he had grown up was a sin, not who he was born as. Perhaps, it was the way he was forged to be a mindless weapon, but that would mean he had always been merely a tool in someone’s bloody conquest, no higher purpose behind all the slaughter, and Lancelot refused to make peace with that idea. 

In a desperate bid to ward off those thoughts, he rummaged through the shipwreck of his faith, trying to salvage at least some of his ideals. Every night, he picked up another piece and turned it around, tried to fit them together into something resembling a meaningful image.

He might have been fighting for the cause he had thought just, but so was Gawain and the man hadn't turned into a monster. It intrigued him deeply, the way the knight’s understanding coexisted with his fierceness. Who would care to see a man was afraid – and ask him not to be, all while being bound and tortured himself? It was a paradox.

And it was unfolding before his eyes right now, as Gawain pulled Percival closer, ruffling the boy’s hair – and in the same breath shot Lancelot a sharp look, piercing green eyes dwelling on him for a moment before wandering back to the others.

That gaze struck him like a flint did the hardened stone, reigniting the sparks of violent longing behind his ribcage. The conviction that had been shaping in his soul for weeks was accelerating, strengthened with every second that passed while he watched the knight. With terrible clarity that left his ears ringing, Lancelot realised he wanted those eyes to linger on him for far longer than cursory glances like this.

Never again did he want to endure that worn-out wariness that dimmed the green when Gawain looked at him. He yearned to see that begrudging respect, and deep inside, he hoped to see it flourish into admiration. And much more than that, but those base urges he forced down without mercy, covered them up with numbness as one would draw the curtains shut in the bedroom. 

But the way Gawain had looked at him this morning...

It didn't matter. His thoughts might stray, his body might be tempted, but that was his fault alone, Lancelot told himself firmly. However, he tried to reason with himself, and perhaps, with whoever was listening in silent judgement, Gawain was a skillful warrior and an unequalled leader, so it wasn't at all unnatural to admire him. 

And surely Lancelot’s skills could warrant that the man saw him as a worthy ally as well – that much he had already told him. But now, he could be loyal enough to be considered a brother as well. He only had to prove himself worthy of the trust Gawain placed in him. 

Resolve strengthened, he reached out to get another piece of the rustic bread and resolutely ignored the tremble in his fingers that betrayed the lie. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we've met Percival for the first time in this story, yay! 
> 
> We have a question for all of you: would you be interested in reading short scenes with what other characters are up to while Lancelot and Gawain are trying to figure out how to kiss? ;)
> 
> With that, we want to wish everyone a happy new year - stay safe, and we'll see you in the new year! <3


	12. Rotten Luck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back! We hope you've had a good start to the new year <3

_ III Septembre _

“This is a loaded die.” 

Pinching it between his thumb and forefinger, Lancelot inspected the sand coloured die with narrowed eyes. Thaid stared back at him from across the table, hazel eyes blown wide and jaw hanging loose in a way that didn’t look even remotely genuine. 

“What—no! That wouldn’t be fair,” he said aghast, cheeks red with a blush.

Lancelot sighed as he put the die down, picking up the other one. The weight was the same. He rolled the die in the palm of his hand – it was a subtle difference, barely there unless one thought of it, but it would be enough to tip the die to the side where the least dots were. 

“So you’re just always this lucky,” he remarked mildly, gaze flicking up to meet Thaid’s. He wasn’t even mad, just felt like a fool that it took him five losses in a row before coming to the conclusion. 

Thaid shrugged, managing to assume an even guiltier grimace. “The Hidden favour me, what can I say?”

Lancelot smiled thinly, putting down the die. “How convenient.”

“Don’t be such a sore loser.”

Leaning back, he crossed his arms and when the boy raised the die, sighed, but gave a curt nod. The game wasn’t nearly as exciting for him as it appeared for the twins, but getting on their good side could prove useful in the future. They were children still, loose-tongued and naive; a weak spot in the carefully constructed bubble of secrecy the Fey kept him in. 

Thaid scratched his chin, short stubble patchy and uneven, a reminder of how young he was. He pursed his lips, reaching out across the table and slid the die back to the centre of the table. Lancelot could practically see the cogs turn inside his head as the silence stretched; he watched idly as Thaid mixed the loaded dice with the others. 

“How about if I win again…” he began, head tilting to the side, “... then you will have to teach us how to fight.” 

The corner of Lancelot's mouth twitched, eyes darting up and lit up with a mischievous gleam. What Thaid asked for was already in the works, it was just a matter when Lancelot would be well enough to swing a sword again, but apparently Gawain hadn’t told that to the twins yet. Perhaps he simply hadn’t had the time. 

In the days since their return, Gawain had been running all around the camp, torn apart by Fey, raiders and locals alike while Lancelot had spent most of his time helping the healers. Polly had kept a keen eye on his condition, clocked him for whenever he needed another dose of medicine, and assigned him to the simplest of tasks – folding clean laundry, cleaning up the tables, mending scavenged garments they could pass off to those in need. 

Still, there was a favourable shift in the attitude towards him by most healers. Their foray with Gawain had led to more patients getting the medicine and, consequently, many had taken their leave walking rather than being carried out. Today was the first slow day in a while, everyone enjoying a breather, and though Lancelot had a pile of clean laundry that needed folding right next to him, not even Polly hounded him for slacking off. 

“And if I win?”

Thaid smiled a too wide smile, almost like it was out of the question. “You can ask for whatever you want,” he said with a generous gesture and then he was pushing two dice in Lancelot’s direction. They were the same ones from before, Lancelot could tell from the faded ink that marked out the dots.

He cast a glance back to his warden who was a drunkard by night and a sluggard by day. His name was Ailbhe, a seasoned Tusk with white carved horns that kept an eye on him when neither Kaze nor Gawain had the time, and as usual, he sat deeply sunken in his chair with his hood tipped over his eyes and tattooed arms crossed over his wide chest.

Lancelot turned back to the twins, took another moment to consider before he asked: “A hair pin?”

Thaid made a face, and Failbe mirrored his expression but in a more exaggerated way; all but pouting with his lips pressed together so tightly. If Lancelot had to guess, he was probably still a bit woozy from the painkiller potion, and while he had the same coordination as a drunkard, at least he didn’t become as chatty as one. 

“What do you need it for?” asked Thaid, leaning closer as his voice dropped lower. 

Lancelot quirked a brow. “What  _ can  _ you need a hair pin for?”

Thaid narrowed his eyes. “Is it about your mane? I think it looks good actually. Far more Fey. Besides, you already have one pin—you don’t need another.”

Lighting up like a little sun beside his brother, Failbe nodded eagerly, and Lancelot couldn’t contain an amused huff. He felt the stitches on his side protest weakly as he put his elbows on the table. “Strange—I thought I could ask for anything.” 

Thaid shrugged helplessly while Failbe looked uncertain, marring his gleeful expression. “Well, yes, but I thought you would ask for… I don’t know—coin?”

Lancelot narrowed his eyes, smirk turning cocky. “You two don’t have any.” 

Thaid scratched his chin while Failbe averted his eyes. In the days Lancelot had been cooped up at the healers, he’d had the twins over his shoulder – or well, one of them. Failbe had been bedridden and only today managed to walk around the inn, still sore and sour as soon as the painkillers faded. 

“We can get you what you want… within reason,” Thaid amended with a feigned solemn expression that was suspiciously reminiscent of the one a certain knight wore sometimes. 

Of course, Lancelot knew they wouldn’t give him a hair pin. They weren’t half-wits, although they didn’t regard him with the same level of suspicion as anyone else – in fact, they were warming up to him rather well. He suspected the twins favoured him even more than Percival did and that in itself was a feat. 

“What were you going to do with it?” Failbe asked, voice a tad hoarse from lack of use. Immediately, Thaid elbowed him with a sharp look, and the boy let out a hushed  _ ouch  _ as he rubbed the struck spot. 

“Escape. And leave a note that it was you two who gave me the means,” Lancelot deadpanned. 

They stared at him doe-eyed. Thaid picked up his dropped jaw and gave him a scrutinizing look. “I'm going to assume it was a joke…” he mumbled, not sounding as confident as he looked.

“It wasn’t.”

“Well, now Gawain will definitely have our hides if we give it to you…” Thaid said slowly and shrugged as if trying to shake off the unease, “so what do you want instead?”

He didn’t really want anything. Gawain supplied him with clothes, food, water – the sole thing he still waited for was his swords. He hadn’t asked about them again even though the wait was rubbing him raw, but he figured Gawain wouldn’t leave him on the stretcher any longer than necessary. With all this talk about training others, Lancelot hoped he would feel the weight of a sword on his hip sooner rather than later. He just had to be patient, which was easier said than done. 

Scrubbing his face, he let out a sigh as his mind turned up blank. “Socks,” he finally said after a beat without much thought. 

“Socks?” Failbe piped in, brows crawling up to his hairline. 

Thaid tilted his head to the side, brows pulled together in confusion. “Out of all the things you could ask for… And you want socks?”

“Winter is coming,” Lancelot said flatly, allowing the words to sink in, and then added in a low, practical voice. “I want a completely new pair. Not the scratchy kind.”

Thaid’s lips stretched in a grin as he gave a nod. “Alright then – deal.” 

With a hand on the Bible, Lancelot didn’t care about winning. His future for the month to come was already sealed and the least he could do was to indulge the twins in another win. The fact that they found joy in a cheated win was a reminder to how young they were, and while he wanted to school them on the value of abiding to the truth, he figured it wasn’t exactly his call. Even if he had essentially orphaned them both.

“Perhaps you should send a prayer to that God of yours,” Thaid challenged as he picked up the dice, cupping them in his hands; they rattled as he shook them. 

“My God doesn’t approve of gambling.”

“Why do you do it then?”

Without giving a reply, Lancelot stared straight ahead, still waiting for Thaid to toss the damn dice. Even Failbe gave his brother a nudge with his elbow when he took too long, and then finally he threw the dice on the table. 

Double fives.

The boy grinned from ear to ear. Lancelot rolled his eyes as he picked up the dice, shook them once—twice, feeling the hairs at the back of his neck rise, stomach twisting into knots for no reason at all. He tossed the dice.

Double sixes.

It took him a blink to realise that he’d won. 

The twins stared back at him, jaws dropped, brows creased and eyes wide with confusion. Lancelot let out an amused breath, lips twitching in a smile he could barely fight back. He might not have been a scholar, but he knew that the odds of winning a game with an opponent that played with loaded dice were low. His losing streak was a testament to that.

“A pair of socks then,” he concluded after another moment of stunned silence.

Thaid picked up his hanging jaw with a huff.  _ “Fine,”  _ he said, not sounding pleased in the slightest, then motioned to the dice. “Do you want to play again? Same bets.”

It felt good to know that he wasn’t the only one who felt the sting of a loss. Taking in the sight of them, he straightened in his seat and said, “I’ve already been ordered to train you two.”

“What—when?”

“When we’re all healed.”

Thaid’s face lit up with a bright smile, shoulders sagging. “Gawain’s orders?”

Lancelot hummed.

“Wicked,” Thaid said, looking all too overjoyed at the news. “Then we both won this round in a way.”

“Guess so.”

Even Failbe beamed, and it made that ice thaw in Lancelot’s chest. It felt good to know that he could still be of use and that they wanted him to teach them. Whereas he’d been apprehensive about going on the foray, he now felt a sense of peace that they had ventured out there, despite the wounds they had carried home. 

Thaid straightened, looking like the cat that got the cream. “So let’s play again then—how about this… that horse you have, Goliath – do you want to out him as a bet?”

Lancelot cocked a surprised brow, head coming to tilt to the side. Amused and shocked all at once, the gall of these _ children.  _

Failbe elbowed Thaid again, leaning in close to whisper to his brother. “He’s considering it!..”

* * *

Teeth bared, Lancelot twisted his hands with a soft growl trapped in his throat. He was covered up to his elbows in red; it was starting to drip steadily on the floor.

He had no idea what Guiscard had been experimenting with this time, but the viscous red liquid had solidified into an oily stain and now stuck to the glass with the tenacity that he could respect. Nevertheless, it was driving him to violence and right now, he almost missed the calm of yesterday when he had a chance to play dice with the twins, even if their chatter was rather tiring.

Scrubbing hard enough for his wrist to protest, Lancelot let out a defeated sigh and then held the vial up to the light before he sighed again. The red stain glared back at him, undefeated, early afternoon sunlight making it glow like an ember. 

“You can use ash,” Faya suggested under her breath from where she leaned on the edge of the table next to him, waiting for more of her chamomile tea to brew. Right after she said it, a strange expression flickered over her face and she hurried to shift her eyes to the nose of the kettle as if it possessed some sacred knowledge.

Suppressing the desire to sigh again, Lancelot put the glass back into the basin and clung to the hope that soaking it a bit more would help, despite ample evidence to the contrary. He propped his elbows on the tabletop, allowing his hands to dry for a moment as he glanced over at Faya again. She kept studying the rising steam intently, the same slightly troubled look on her face.

“I’d rather not,” he muttered at last, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together, the skin of them wrinkled and spongy. He had been at it long enough for the dishwater to turn cold. “Last time someone tinkered with Guiscard’s potions, I was picking up glass for an hour.”

The tension drained out of her shoulders as Faya hid her face in a cup – it did little, as he could still see the corners of her lips twitch in a smile. Lancelot pressed his mouth in a tight line, narrowing his eyes.

“Sorry,” she chuckled softly, merely a shaky exhale. “Never thought I’d hear the Grey Monk grouch about chores.”

Staring tiredly at the red tendrils swirling in the water, Lancelot raised his arm to push the hair out of his eyes, water running down his forearm and soaking the rolled up tunic sleeve. The bandages around his wrist had come off yesterday, and Polly hadn’t hesitated for a moment to extend his list of chores once more. “Neither did I.”

For a short while, they were silent as he stared at the vial, wondering if breaking it would be seen as violent outburst. The tension thickened between them along with the suffocatingly pleasant scent of chamomile tea. From what he had observed, Faya always insisted on brewing it strong enough to calm a winter bear. For good.

“I wanted to apologise for that joke,” she said suddenly, voice rising higher with every word that tumbled out. “It was stupid, disrespectful to you both and—insensitive...”

A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that Kaze, who was unexpectedly back to guarding him this afternoon, was still reading a small black book rather than watching his reaction. Rubbing his fingers together, Lancelot paused, wondering whether this was all somehow connected. It didn’t seem so — Kaze seemed genuinely engrossed in her reading.

Putting the rug down as he resorted to pretending he had lost the bloody vial, he shrugged and looked away. “Wasn’t you.”

“Well, Bate is a lost cause when it comes to this,” she scoffed, carefully lifting the lid of the kettle to see whether the brew was ready. “But I should have stopped him. It’s not like most newcomers don’t moon over Gawain.”

Lancelot paused, throwing her a sideways glance as he wiped off his hands. It was a losing battle, with water soaking the front of his shirt already, but at least he tried. That should count for something, he told himself before looking back at Faya. 

Normally, he would have let the sleeping dogs lie, but it wasn’t the first time that she came to share her lunch with the healers, and since their foray together, she had always greeted him with something approaching friendliness. Now as she picked up the kettle carefully, a towel wrapped around her delicate hands, she seemed almost serene, and it gave him the courage to ask.

“Did you?”

“No,” she stopped pouring the tea and then winced, before resuming, fragrant steam rising from the cup. “The opposite, actually," she added, almost as an afterthought, without raising her eyes. 

Taking another vial from the pile, Lancelot made a soft inquisitive noise.

“I tried to kill him,” Faya said, low and clear, as she put the kettle down and picked up her teacup, pale slender fingers wrapped around the floral-patterned rim. 

Lancelot slowly put the vial down. “Why?” he asked, not looking at her and staring instead at the scatter of stained cups and half-filled bottles on the table.

“I…” She shifted in a vaguely uncomfortable way, so he kept silent, going back to work, but after a short pause, she sighed and continued in a hushed voice. “I thought he meant to harm me.”

When he darted her a quick glance, the corners of her eyes were tightened, pale lilac tint of exhaustion edging them. Shifting his eyes away, Lancelot paused, letting the words sink in and the murky water settle while he inspected the labels with a blank look.

“What did he do?” he muttered quietly, grasping the edge of the table a bit tighter. 

“Nothing.” Faya shook her head and took another careful sip. “I simply misunderstood him.”

Lancelot paused, then remembered himself and continued rinsing. “How so?”

A faint frown knitted her brows together as Faya briefly pressed the cup to her bottom lip, before putting it down. “Gawain charms people – men, women. Everything in between. It is easy to read it wrong. But he would never force anyone,” she scoffed. “Doesn’t need to with most.”

“Isn't that forbidden?” Lancelot asked slowly.

With a soft, thoughtful hum, Faya tilted her head to the side and reached down to pick up her cup.

“Not with most tribes, no,” she murmured, fingers brushing over the empty place where the poison had just stood, before she raised her brows and glanced down to grab the tea.

Falling quiet, Lancelot clenched his jaw. The silence grew more awkward with every passing moment until Faya coughed slightly, tilting her cup to finish the tea in one large gulp, before putting it back – out of the way of his rug as he resumed sweeping the tabletop. 

“So... It was—nice to see you?” she said, sounding as if she had forgotten the words to the play and was trying to guess it from someone mouthing it from the audience.

His hands slowed and Lancelot blinked, a short pause before he replied cautiously: “You, too.”

Giving him a slight nod, she lingered for a moment longer, then turned on her heel and headed for the exit. He still followed her with his eyes, trying to process what he had learnt when his ears caught the hurried footsteps rapidly approaching the inn. 

The door flung open, nearly missing Faya, who had to step aside to avoid colliding with it, letting in the clamour of the crowd and revealing a long line of patients – much longer than Lancelot had ever seen. Judging from the long faces the healers had, they were also taken aback.

Pym rushed in with a strained swear, a basket full of linen she must have just fetched from the laundresses. Despite someone trying to shoulder their way in, she resolutely shut the door and then propped it with her hip. 

“Just a moment!” she shouted over the pounding of the fists, and turned to the other healers. “Polly, there’s a  _ huge  _ crowd.”

“Anyone urgent?” the head healer scowled, but then her expression relaxed a bit when Pym shook her head, tossing her braid back. Still, with a faint frown pulling her eyebrows together, Polly glanced at the cabinet, her lips moving silently as she counted the remaining bottles of feverfew tincture.

“Alright, everyone, as usual,” she called out, clasping her hands. “Pym, Bronwyn, you stay with me,” she addressed the apprentices, who hurried to put down the basket and stepped closer, laying out of one of the recently washed linens on the wider bench. “Guiscard, you are in charge of the easier ones.”

With a curt nod, the Moonwing carefully put aside the book he was thumbing through, clasping the lock on it shut, and crossed his arms. Giving him a sideways look, Lancelot slowly finished wringing out the rug, ran some of the cleaner water over his hands, and sneaked a look at Polly, not sure of how to proceed. 

She studied him, the intensity of her stare provoking a sense of unease, worsened by the way she tapped the desk with her fingertips, lost in thought. When Faya approached her on light feet, she only looked away briefly. 

“I can stay, too—seems like you can use a hand,” she murmured and leant gingerly against one of the tables, eyes roaming the lines of half-filled bottles. “If I won’t be in the way.”

“You’re never in the way,” Polly scoffed with good humour, her voice growing warmer, and then threw a sharp look at Lancelot, before asking something in a hushed tone, suddenly switching to Sylvan. 

Startled, Faya raised her brows, eyes also leaping to him. He willed his shoulders not to hunch under their intense attention, but that seemed to draw the gazes of the others along as well. When she gave a nod, Polly asked another question, still in Sylvan — but this time there was Gawain’s name that he recognised and what sounded like the word for say.  _ What would Gawain say? About what?  _

“Only good, from what I hear,” Faya replied, giving him a barely noticeable smile, just a twitch of her lips. It took some of the weight off his shoulders, but he still couldn’t help but stiffen his back when turning his gaze back to Polly. 

Raising her head from the book, Kaze glanced between them, then said something curtly and put her book aside. With a thoughtful hum as her only reply, Polly studied him for a moment longer, then raised her chin. It was as even the splatter of dots on her face rearranged into something more severe and solemn, framing her dark, gleaming eyes.

“Let’s hope he is right,” she said under her breath – probably not even realising Lancelot would hear that – and walked over to him in several quick strides. Despite her peaceful appearance, the determination in her gait always made it abundantly clear how little she tolerated any idling.

Straightening, he watched her approach with a wary look, not even blinking. When they stood chest to chest, she looked up and despite their glaring difference in height, under her heavy, piercing stare he somehow felt like a young boy again.

“Faya says you were curious about the remedies. Is that so?”

Swallowing thickly, he inclined his head, and let out a soft sigh when Polly smiled a bit, even though her eyes remained just as hard.

“I am going to unchain you,” she said in a calm voice, reaching into the leather pouch on her belt with a secure, complicated knot. “Do you promise you are not going to try anything?”

With his heart in his throat, Lancelot bowed his head, seeing the drawstring come undone in the corner of his eye as he kept Polly’s gaze steadily. The hair on the back of his neck rose as he heard the chair creak as Kaze shifted.

“I swear I will not,” he muttered, and even though his voice was quiet, he hoped it was enough. Despite all the eyes focused on him, it didn’t feel like they expected a grand declaration. It seemed as if Gawain had taken over that part of him, and now he simply had to prove he was deserving of that trust.

There was a long, tense moment as Polly tilted her head, searching his face. He wasn’t sure what it reflected, but she seemed to find something that reassured her in his honesty, because the next thing he knew, there was a key pushed into his palm.

After a surprised blink, he glanced down at it before letting his fingers wrap around, feeling the metal ridges dig into the palm of his hand. Realising that this was a moment he’d been waiting for, he dropped to one knee in a haste and unlocked the shackles on his ankles. The chain rattled softly as he unclasped them both, and the relief was immediate – being able to walk around without that damn thing restraining his steps was a blessing. He tried not to appear too eager, but certainly failed at that. 

At least Polly was kind enough not to comment on that, and Lancelot only cleared his throat when he straightened and looked around, heart pounding hard in his chest. It wasn’t the anticipation of a fight, but it wasn’t far from it either – he wanted to know what the strategy was. The healers usually treated the patients in the smaller rooms to provide some privacy – and at least an illusion of safety, he supposed.

“Lancelot.”

Startled, he glanced at Polly to find her arching her eyebrow as she stretched out a hand.

“The key?”

A hot blush creeping on his cheeks, he hurried to hand it back to her, cold dread filling him that he had already managed to screw it up. But the woman just scoffed and shook her head, before putting her small hand on his forearm and pushing him gently, but insistently towards the benches.

“Just sit and watch until I ask you to fetch something. I will explain what I do. And Lancelot,” she paused, waited for him to look at her, and held his gaze. “You can ask if you don’t know. There is no shame in that.”

Unsure of whether he agreed, he still gave her a stiff nod, and carefully lowered himself to the bench. The new-found freedom and the sudden responsibility nearly drove him to bounce his knee in anxious anticipation of the first patient, but he forced the foolish impulse down. 

However, it didn’t stop him from clasping his hands tightly, the skin still slightly wrinkled and soft from the water. For a moment it looked as if Kaze smirked, but he only spared her a brief glance, before looking back to the door.

“Ready?” Pym called out with a grin, and when Polly waved at her impatiently, she threw the door open, the sick and ailed flooding in. 

It seemed as if every other Fey managed to get a cold, and the rest of them had one old ache or another flaring up, the healed wounds making themselves known again. Several little Fauns had a terrible hay fever, which he found funny, but hid, and wisely so, because Polly certainly didn’t see it as a laughing matter. A couple of shy Snake people came for the treatment that alleviated the horrible itch their scales were prone to after they had been driven out of their marshes. 

As Polly explained it to him under her voice as she refilled the bottles they had brought, Lancelot hunched in on himself, expecting another harsh remark from the Fey which he would probably not understand the words of, but the tone alone would make it clear what was meant. However, to his surprise, no one said anything and when he raised his eyes, they weren’t exactly smiling, but studying him back with almost amiable expressions.

Overcome by the strange tug in his chest, he looked away, focusing on what Polly was saying. She was now explaining to him how to treat minor burns with an immediate demonstration on a sullen looking undine girl. Hardly a concern for him, Lancelot noted inwardly, but still listened closely. It could come in handy if he wanted to be at Gawain’s side during those rescue missions.

“So, honey or oak bark for this and then...”

The door flung open once more, cutting the lesson short as a heavy-breathing, ruffled Cliff Walker stepped in, carrying a Moonwing woman in his arms.

“Polly!” he bellowed, shoulders sagging in relief. “Oh bless Danu – she is… she is…”

“In labour,” Polly finished for him, before nodding briskly at Lancelot. “Finish here.”

With that, she strode over, calling for the apprentices, who hurried to hand their patients over to a distinctly overwhelmed Guiscard, and then tailed the head healer to the smaller room adjacent to the main hall. Judging from their pale faces and the fragments of their whispers that Lancelot caught, certain half-bloods were just more difficult to deliver than others.

“Are you just going to keep staring?” the undine inquired darkly, snapping him out of his daze. 

Looking back at her, he saw her slanting, cold green eyes narrow as she kept her hand held out. Without saying a word, he reached out for the rest of the salve and carefully slathered it on her scaly skin. No matter how gentle he tried to be, she hissed and pouted, and after the third time he clenched his jaw, huffing out angrily.

The screams of the woman in the background weren’t helping his composure in the slightest. Then the Cliff Walker was forced outside by Pym, which was a feat in itself, given how he was two heads taller than her – but where he was flustered and stunned, her face was set in fierce determination. 

The door shut close with a loud thud, leaving the lost looking man staring at it blindly, as he blinked rapidly, mouth hanging open. Then the legs of the chair scraped on the floor, and when Lancelot looked over, he saw Kaze approach him. Putting a hand on the Cliff Walker’s shoulder, she gently but firmly tugged him away, seating him at the table next to her and silently handing him a mug of water.

He took it with trembling hands and a grateful weak nod. The other patients who were still waiting for their ailments scooted closer, trying to offer him some comfort in hushed voices, but despite his faint smiles, the man’s anguish was written clearly in his hooded pale eyes.

Everyone was distracted – even Kaze’s stony facade broke as she glanced between Lancelot and the door of the room where the woman and the healers had disappeared. Freezing, he tried his best to appear non-threatening, choosing to look in the same direction as well. Without Polly nearby, no one approached him, flocking instead to Guiscard, joined now by Faya. 

Lancelot swallowed thickly as he stole a look at the back door, wondering if he should take that chance, but before he could figure out if he could reach it somehow, Kaze appeared next to him, making his heart leap. In her hands was the same key Polly had given him earlier, and the shackles gleamed against her dark skin.

“Have I done something wrong?” he blurted, mentally scolding himself as he forced himself not to recoil.

Kaze paused, her sharp dark eyes roving his face.

“No, Lancelot, not at all,” she said in a quiet voice. “But I can’t risk it.”

It shouldn’t upset him. She was reasonable and her demand made it clear that it wasn’t Polly or any of the healers he had to prove his worth to, but to Kaze. “Please,” he said, hating himself for how soft the word fell from his lips. “Let me prove myself it’s not a risk to keep me free from chains.” 

Something flickered in her gaze as she exhaled slowly, running a hand over her face. She looked back at the room where Polly was yelling—orders at the apprentices and encouragement at the woman.

“If you run now,” Kaze muttered, fixing him with a heavy stare that sent a shiver down his spine. Then she shook her head and lowered her hand, shackles rattling again. “I will gut you and not even Gawain will stop me.”

With his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, Lancelot looked between her and the door. The noise of the room grew strangely distant as he gave a stiff nod. Meeting his eyes, Kaze tilted her head to point at the empty bench under the stairwell.

“Go sit there, it should be a bit quieter,” she muttered, before taking a step back to join the others at the table once more.

Letting out a relieved sigh, Lancelot stepped aside, eager to put some distance between them. However, before he could return to the free bench in the corner, hurried footsteps sounded on the stairs, dragging his gaze up-up-up—

—and then someone stumbled and fell onto him.

He caught them without a thought, and the weight sent the stitches aching to the point his knees nearly buckled, but he remained upright. With his heart rabbit-fast in his chest, he looked down to the girl that clung to him, still slowly sagging on the floor like a sack of turnips. She couldn’t be older than sixteen. Her dress was a tattered thing, sleeves roughly stitched up to fit her frame and the hem of it fraying— 

—the moment she lifted her head and their eyes met, anguish was replaced with fear. Her mouth fell open in a silent scream and she tried to draw back, all the fight coming back to her in a heartbeat. 

“Easy,” Lancelot hurried to say before she could scream. It had happened before, when they brought someone in who had seen his face and survived. “I won't harm you. You’re safe.”

The girl filled her fists with his tunic as she looked him once up and down, bottom lip quivering and eyes glossed over. She nodded shakily over and over again, like she couldn’t stop – perhaps she couldn’t with the way her breath stuttered in her throat. He felt her tremble like a leaf as he awkwardly guided her to a nearby bench and knelt next to it, trying his best to appear non-threatening. It worked with animals, no reason not to work with Fey, too.

Once he let go, she immediately curled into a tight ball, hugging her knees to her chest. Her dirty blond hair fell in dishevelled clumps over her face, shielding it from his eyes; instead, they caught and lingered on a bronze hair pin that clung to the tangled strands at an odd angle.

Lancelot shot a glance over his shoulder, but everyone still seemed too distracted by the unfolding drama to pay him any attention. Save for Kaze, who half rose from her seat, but then saw the girl unharmed and looked away, distracted by another pained cry, this time followed by a loud clatter. 

He ran his hand over the girl’s head in a pretence of consolation; the soft, dry hair brushing against the palm of his hand until he felt the hard edge of the pin, and without a moment’s hesitation, snatched it. His heart pounded in his chest; an inkling in the back of his mind cautioned him against what he was doing—that he shouldn’t steal, but the spiteful rush he felt was ineffable. Besides, he’d been thinking about picking the locks to the cuffs for days now – not because he distrusted Gawain, but because he wanted a way out in case things went south.

He clutched the pin in his hand, feeling it dig into his skin. Tucking it behind his belt, he looked at the shaking, pale girl and realised numbly he had no idea what to do now. 

With the way her eyes had gone wide with terror, he doubted she’d let him take a look at her injuries. He could try, perhaps force her to stop curling up like a scared little animal, but that would be like signing his own death sentence. Left with only one sensible option, he searched with his eyes for Guiscard, only to see that he was still busy with one of the patients, a confused frown on his face as he listened to them. 

“It’s alright—don’t be afraid.” 

The familiar voice snatched Lancelot’s gaze sideways and he saw Faya give him a small, tense smile before she knelt in front of the girl. 

“I’ll help her,” Faya added, and the girl glanced up timidly; her tears had left shining streaks down her cheeks. 

Giving her a curt nod, Lancelot stood up and took a step back, but before he could get any further with either foot or thought, Kaze looked up again.

When her sharp eyes found him, he barely managed to keep his face impassive. He looked away quickly as he muttered a short, angry prayer in his head, begging the higher powers for her not to come any closer. Because if there was anyone that was blessed with the eyes of an eagle, it was her. 

Her gaze rested like a tangible weight on him, urging that prayer inside his mind faster to its end. 

Perhaps someone listened for once. He expected her to stride over, teeth bared and knuckles pale around the grip of her sword, but when he dared to look at her again, she only shot him a warning glare before turning around, distracted by another anguished wail the woman let out. 

Lancelot took a step back, putting some distance between him and the others. He let out a breath as he edged toward the wall. But before he could take more than a step away, someone bumped into him shoulder-first.

It seemed to be another one of the recent refugees temporarily housed at the inn to recover – a man this time. Tall, bearded, with the scent that of the air after a thunderstorm and... rot. The foul combination made his stomach clench.

“Oh, sorry, young man,” the patient muttered, clinging to Lancelot’s shoulder for support. “My eyes are not what they were.”

Out of instinct, Lancelot dug his fingers into the man’s arm to try and wrangle them away, but remembered himself in time and loosened the grip, taking a step back to assess his next obstacle. 

The man’s head was wrapped in fraying but clean bandages, hiding everything but the bright blue eyes. The wound underneath must have been the reason why he was so disoriented. He sounded as if he was hardly a decade older than Lancelot – who just nodded, not willing to argue with a concussed person, choosing instead to let go. But before he could try to back away, the man spoke again.

“Can you help me out a bit?” he asked and then swayed again, forcing Lancelot to steady him by the arm.

A sour grimace pulled on his lips. He was already on edge from Kaze watching him, from hearing the cries that were many times louder for him than for others, not to mention the heavy scent of blood slowly suffusing the room as it slowly drifted from behind the closed door. Out of habit, his hands itched for a sword, especially with the way bony fingers dug into his arm in an iron grip, but he forced the impulse down and tried to tune the noise out. 

In the corner of his eye, he saw Kaze glance his way again and though she turned away right after, he let out a relieved breath, the weight of the pin feeling far greater than it ought to be. He needed to get rid of it somewhere he would be able to get it later without anyone sweeping it away. 

Grabbing the man by the shoulders with perhaps a bit more strength than appropriate, Lancelot awkwardly pulled him further away from the commotion and toward one of the last free benches tucked between the wall and the potion cabinet. Truth be told, Lancelot was far more accustomed to dragging people by their limbs with little care to their well-being, and having someone injured in his arms was a daunting prospect. With startling clarity, he realised that a single mistake could cost him weeks of laying low. 

The thought loosened his grip as he led the wounded man over. What if he accidentally killed him—

“—breathe, boy,” the man chuckled, closely followed by a groan as he clutched his head. “Or it would be me helping you.”

Lancelot pressed his lips together, realising that he was breathing harder. “What happened to you?” he asked all while trying to regain that mask of indifference. As gingerly as he could, he helped the man sit down onto the bench. 

“I met the unfortunate end of a shield,” the man said almost apologetically. 

“Didn’t know there was one.“ In the corner of his eye, the potion cabinet stood with one of the doors ajar and Lancelot made a mental list of everything that would be needed to treat a wound caused by blunt force. Depending on how hard the man had collided with that unfortunate end, Lancelot figured he was concussed. 

“There are ends to everything.” 

“I don’t doubt it,” Lancelot mumbled as he reached for the man’s bandages. “Sit still, I need to take a look.” 

“No—no, that’s nothing,” the man muttered, and then coughed in his hand, dark blue rings standing out sharply against his pale skin. “It’s just a bad scratch—I had it treated. Just pass me a flagon with feverfew, I came down for a dose of it.”

Lancelot glanced over his shoulder, back to where the potion cabinet was. It was one thing to pluck and ground herbs before turning them into potions, it was another to rake through the cabinet of various brews. Polly would have his head, and Pym, and every other Fey who thought he would poison them all when they weren’t looking. All it took was one glance from Kaze, and Lancelot would be done for.

Perhaps they would forgive him if this saved someone’s life though. Swallowing down his hesitation, Lancelot turned to the cabinet. Hand hovering over the bottles, he shot another look at the man, trying to gauge whether he needed anything else – he seemed alert enough for him to risk it.

“It’s the left one,” the man informed him helpfully, misinterpreting his hesitation.

Lancelot snatched the flagon with a sharp exhale, tugging the cork out as he turned back to his chatty patient. He handed him the medicine and paused, watching the man take a hearty swig before leaning back against the edge of the table with a wince. 

“Nothing like a feverfew potion,” the man said with a grimace, irony dripping from his tongue.

Lancelot slid onto the bench next to him and he caught a glimpse of more bandages peeking out in the collar of the man’s tattered light shirt. 

“You’re bleeding,” his frown deepened as he reached out to tug the fabric aside. “Let me see.”

“Why, you keep surprising me,” the man grinned and then winced, to which Lancelot just raised a brow. He pushed himself up, fetched linen and a small vial of yarrow tincture from the cabinet all while throwing furtive glances over his shoulder, keeping an eye on Kaze who still sat with the Cliff Walker. The bottle he took was only half-full – at this rate, they would need another foray into the woods soon.

Once back on the bench, he tried to ignore the way his patient shrugged out of the already ruined shirt and then kept watching him with an inquisitive tilt of his head. He didn’t even seem to be bothered by how rough Lancelot’s fingers were when he awkwardly tugged apart the blood-matted knots of the linen on his chest. 

He paused briefly, noticing a scar in the middle of the man’s chest – it looked like an arrow wound. An arrow wound that should have killed him, but before he could figure it out, the man spoke again, prompting him to drag his eyes away and get back to work.

“I saw you before. Why do they still keep you chained?” he asked in a low voice, watching him uncork the vial.

Tilting his head, Lancelot tried to seek out the source of that rotting undertone in the man’s scent, but couldn’t see anything but a few sluggishly bleeding gashes. It wasn’t even like the one that usually wafted off the festering wounds; it felt more oily and unnatural. 

“They have a reason,” he uttered, lowering his eyes again and urging the man to sit up straighter again to take a look at his back. Nothing, either. It was… odd. A strange foreboding feeling was taking shape in his chest, the squirm in his belly growing stronger.

“They always do.”

Somewhat taken aback by the reply, Lancelot glanced up to see the man tilt his head with an inquisitive gleam in his sharp eyes. 

“But to keep you like this at the healers? It’s odd.”

“They need me,” he replied curtly, pausing briefly before pressing his lips in a tight line and reaching out to pick the fresh bandages. “But they’re afraid.”

The man stopped turning his head left and right, as if he was trying to find something in the crowd, and glanced back at him. “Why?”

Brows pulling in a frown, Lancelot let out a sharp breath and pressed a palm against the nosy patient’s side to urge him to keep still, lest he aggravated the wounds somehow and ended up needing even more help. 

“Do you not know who I am?” he asked in a low voice, feeling a slight tug of embarrassment over the poised question. 

“Just rumours,” the man shrugged, scratching at his short beard, and the tip of his nose twitched. “And Fey are quite pharisaic bastards.”

Distracted by soaking the bandages in the tincture, Lancelot hummed in agreement, and then froze, mortified. The skin on the back of his neck prickled as if everyone in the room at once turned around to stare at him. But when he swallowed thickly and glanced up, the only one looking at him was the man himself, a soft chuckle mirrored by the mirth brimming in his sharp eyes.

“Between us, of course,” he promised, a smile bunching up the bandage slung across his jaw.

For a moment, Lancelot was silent, staring at the man as he tried to figure out how long it would take him to tattle. He held some hope that should it reach Gawain’s ears, he would see it for what it was – a slip-up and not something malicious. Schooling his face into a blank look, he handed more bandages to the man. 

“Aren’t you Fey, too?” Lancelot muttered under his breath, as he plucked up the soiled linen with the tips of his fingers, piling them in the bowl. 

“Half-blood,” the man shrugged, leaning back again, and Lancelot startled, looking up. The pale blue eyes met his, lingered, a thin net of burst blood vessels stretching from their corners. 

Lancelot blinked, eyes roaming his face and chest again as if looking for a clue of how he was different from other Fey—from Man Bloods—from everyone. Save for the scent of thunderstorms that wafted off his skin, there was barely anything that could have been considered unusual. He couldn’t help but wonder if that was why the man’s smell was so odd – some strange mingle of species, perhaps.

He had met some half-bloods before, but not here in the camp. They must have been here somewhere, he had heard Gawain mention them, but never talked to one, even though he had hunted some for information before. They were rare though, and far more elusive than purebloods – half-bloods knew the safe nooks in the towns better, often had help from their Man Blood relatives and friends, and it was far easier for them to hide their slightly inhuman features.

Throwing a glance at Kaze, Lancelot decided to once again try his luck with figuring out where the hell he was.

“Where do you come from?” he asked quietly, pulling back and squinting at the fresh wound dressing. It was—well, the man would live. He should. Not thanks to his abilities, but he seemed a robust fellow, if that odd arrow wound was any indication.

“That place is no longer,” the man shrugged, and Lancelot looked away, lips pressed into a thin line. The obscure feeling in his chest could have been guilt, could have been frustration, but as most of them, it just flared up short and angry, leaving a dull ache in its wake.

He picked up the flagons, pushing himself up from the bench and straightened, only to turn back to the man when he spoke again. 

“And you?”

Lancelot just shook his head, darting a quick look around before he walked the few steps to the potion cabinet. Before he began putting the remedies back onto their place, he paused and took a second look. No one was still looking his way, not even Kaze.

“Sounds like you are from Francia. Your accent is, at least. Did I get that right?”

At a cold gust of air, the fine hairs on his arms stood up, and Lancelot ran a hand down his prickling skin to smoothen the feeling away. Something was wrong, the unsettled feeling in his stomach morphing into a painful lurch, but he couldn’t figure out what.

“Close,” he mumbled as he pushed the bottles in their place before turning to the man. The inn hall was oddly quiet. He didn’t even hear the labouring woman scream or Polly bark out orders from behind the closed door. None of the Fey gathered around Kaze was looking his way even after a long moment of him staring at them, and that in itself was strange. People always felt his gaze as if it held real weight. 

He swallowed dryly, scrubbing nails once more over his skin as if that would stop the goosebumps from crawling up his arm. His heart pounded hard in his chest and if the strange feeling could be likened with anything at all, it was like watching the storm clouds loom on the horizon; it promised trouble. 

“Why did you stray so far?”

Lancelot narrowed his eyes at the man. “Wasn’t my choice,” he muttered, ignoring the way his stomach did another barrel roll. When he couldn’t look into the depth of those deep, steely eyes, he found himself nervously glancing around; eyes jumping back to the other patients, whose glances still slid over him like water off the duck’s back.

“But it is obviously one to stay here,” the man sounded clearly amused.

Lancelot stiffened, pulling his shoulders back a bit. He could no longer deny that they were the only ones unaffected by the strange situation. “Why do you ask these things?” he asked tight-lipped as he looked at Kaze from afar, suddenly wanting her to look their way. 

“Because it’s quite entertaining to see you try to lie, boy.” 

The words, said almost matter-of-factly, the barest hint of tired humour to them, were followed by a soft rustle as if the man was trying to get more comfortable. 

It was the straw that broke the camel’s back; fed up with his odd demeanour, his curiosity, his elusive answers and most of all, terrified of the strangeness radiating from him, Lancelot turned to the man again with a snarl on his lips.

The bench was empty. On the table there was the bowl of spoiled rags. From the closed door, another gut-wrenching scream could be heard from the woman. The chatter from Kaze’s table turned loud—the sound of glass shattering at the far end of the room yanked Lancelot’s gaze away momentarily, only to see the glimpses of Faya and Guiscard on their knees picking up pieces. 

The bench was still vacant when Lancelot snapped his gaze back. He blinked once—twice, and then the quiet creak from the back door reached his ears through the inn’s loud murmur. Without a thought, he rushed towards it, half-stumbling but lurched forward again, the instinct kicking in to follow what could very well be a threat. The elusive rotten smell made it in his mouth again, making him wince.

The wind blew the door wide open, almost inviting him to come outside. He stopped dead in his tracks just shy of reaching the threshold, hands placed on either side of the door frame as he leaned outside, tiptoes still on the right side of the threshold. Outside, the afternoon sky was turning purple like a bruise and the wind was cold, bearing the promise of harsher times to come. He glanced left and right, but the back alley stood empty except for a stray cat that dragged its raised tail at the opposite building. 

The wind carried none of that smell of thunderstorm and rot. It confused him even further and made him push away from the doorframe, turning back and glancing back into the inn. The smell still lingered in the doorway, but it was dissipating faster than it usually would. The din of voices grew louder, stopping his train of thought momentarily. 

They were cheering.

Half-turning to where the smaller rooms were, he saw that the closed door now stood ajar and that Pym was rushing past him with a wooden bucket full of dirty water. Catching her by the elbow, Lancelot ignored her protesting squeak at the water sloshing over the rim and onto their feet.

“Have you seen where that man went?” he asked sharply.

Wrenching her elbow out of his grip, she scowled, glancing between him and the door. “What man? I was helping deliver a baby in case you’ve forgotten.”

“With a bandaged head—he was just there, I was with him,” he said, voice growing quieter as he saw suspicion and disbelief grow in her eyes. Kaze was watching him impassively from afar, but with an inquisitive tilt to her head didn’t bode well for him and then she was walking over to them, steps quick and determined. 

“I haven’t seen anyone there,” Pym shrugged dismissively. When she glanced briefly at Kaze, the woman appeared equally puzzled. They both narrowed their eyes at him, scrutinizing him in that terrible way that made him feel guilty for no reason at all. 

Pym adjusted the grip on the bucket’s handle, chin jutting up. “A better question is what  _ you  _ are doing here. You didn’t happen to feel the itch to run away?” 

A shiver ran down Lancelot’s spine; he schooled his face into an impassive expression. “I told you,” he said darkly. “I was helping him, and then he disappeared.”

Kaze sucked in a deep breath, shoulders squaring as she glanced between him and the door, a quick frown crossing her brow. 

“Right,” Pym huffed and then she turned to Kaze. “Did you see him tend to a man with a bandaged head?” 

She glared daggers at Lancelot. The air stiffened, suspense mighty enough to choke a man, and it was impossible to predict what would come out of her mouth. 

“I saw him help a patient, yes,” Kaze said finally. “But I did not see this bandaged man leave.” 

“What’s going on here?” 

They all almost leapt out of their shoes at the sound of Polly’s voice. In unison, they all turned to face her. There was blood all over her apron, the smell of it and wet rocks almost emitting off her, and strands of her chestnut hair stood upright in her otherwise perfect braids. 

“Lancelot’s lost a patient,” Pym said quickly.

“What? Who?” Polly gasped as she began looking around almost as if expecting to find the man dead on the ground. 

“Not lost like _ that,”  _ Pym clarified, looking a little sheepish. “A man with a bandaged head walked off.” 

Wiping her hands on the apron, Polly’s face hardened as she looked between them and after a moment’s thought, shook her head. “I haven’t seen anyone like that—was he concussed? Lancelot? Lancelot! Do we have a concussed runaway?”

He wiped the cold sweat off his brow as he shook his head weakly. “No—no, he wasn’t.” The moment he heard his own words, he heard the hollowness of them, too – it felt like he was lying, and right now, he was starting to think that he himself must have been concussed after all. Judging from Polly’s face, she was considering the same–or something much worse, he thought, filled with cold dread as he realised the consequences of his rash decision. 

But after studying him for a moment longer, she just nodded once and briefly looked back to Kaze who was watching with a deepening frown. “Can you find someone to search the town?”

At the warrior’s terse nod, Lancelot’s knees almost buckled with relief. Carefully keeping his face blank, he watched Polly turn back to Pym, who was still eyeing him with a suspicious squint but quickly withered under the head healer’s heavy stare.

“Instead of gawking, hurry up – and don’t forget to boil more water,” Polly all but growled, and then looked back at Lancelot, shaking her head. “I don’t know what happened, but I’d better not be finding any bodies in the backroom.”

“None, my lady,” he replied quietly. He would definitely not put them there. If there were any.

“Good,” she nodded, a severe expression on her face losing its edge. 

It took a significant effort not to glance at the door that still stood open, hinges squeaking quietly in the wind. It was strange how he could neither pick up nor place the scent – he had been familiar with most of the smells one could encounter in Britain, and he surely had never met something so shifting and foreign. 

However, feeling the sharp gazes from the trio of women on him, Lancelot bowed his head and silently walked back to the bench where he had treated the man without uttering a word. He already looked insane enough. Behind his back, he could hear the soft relieved breath Polly let out. Kaze didn’t make a sound.

He cleaned up the stained rags, gathering them all in the bowl. It was still hard to believe—it was truly like the man had been a ghost, but it couldn’t have come for him, because he was sure he hadn’t seen the man before. Forcing himself to drop it, he turned away from the bench, only to find Polly waving at him impatiently from the doorway to one of the smaller rooms. 

He sat the bowl with stained rags aside and walked over, the sound of wailing cries growing louder and louder the closer he got. The camp’s newest addition certainly had a good set of lungs, a thing he marvelled even moreover as he reached the threshold and peeked inside. How could something so small produce such an ear-piercing scream?

On the bed was the young happy family with the screaming baby in proud father’s arms – a stark contrast to the disarray of stained rags, soiled bed linen and puddles on the floor that stunk too much for Lancelot to hope it was just water. 

Polly chuckled next to him, and Lancelot looked at her askance, already guessing what she was about to say. 

“Since you volunteered to help...” she shrugged.

God have mercy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... who do you think came to pay Lancelot a visit in the last scene? ;) 
> 
> We promise that the coming chapter will step up the pace again... or at least make things a little bit more interesting. See you in the next one, take care! <3


	13. Hear, Hear - I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gawain invented 2-factor auth. Kay yawned approximately 7544 times while editing because of that one sentence where he does.

The attic smelled like forest.

Dragging the blanket up to his shoulders, Lancelot shivered with pleasure and curled in on himself, allowing the warmth to seep into his body. Over the last couple of evenings, Gawain and he had stuffed the cracks in the walls, and finally the draft was firmly kept outside the door. Heat emitted from the chimney wall, banishing the last traces of dreadful chill. 

Staring absently at the slanted ceiling, he listened to light rain pattering on the roof. It seemed the moss they had used to patch it up a bit was holding fine, its earthy smell filling the room but no stray droplets seeping through it. 

A few nights ago, Lancelot had seen a raven land on the windowsill with a tuft of it clutched in its beak. The bird seemed to think that the attic was a perfect place for a nest. In fact, it had been so stubborn that he’d had to shoo it away with a shirt before the raven had finally retreated with an indignant caw.

The memory brought a slight smile to his lips and he inhaled a bit deeper, the oddly pleasant smell of moss mingling with sage and smoke from the candles burning on the desk. The room was draped in a shifting sea of shadows cast by the tiny flames. They were thickening in the dying glow of the sunset filtering through the half-open shutters, ochre and cadmium painting the walls and the ceiling in broad strokes.

Between the seemingly endless shift at the healers and a belly full of warm supper, Lancelot was more than ready to tuck in, thoroughly worn out after a day’s good work. Raking a hand through his hair, he shifted on the bedroll, settling more comfortably and sighed softly.

Looking up at him, Gawain paused taking the vambrace off, then started again.

“Has something happened?”

Startled out of his blissful daze, Lancelot blinked a couple of times. “No. Why?”

“You seem more at ease as of late.” Gawain looked away, a small smile of his own curling a corner of his lips up. “Even smiling—nice to see. Why now, though?”

It was an odd thing to ask. Tilting his head to see him better, Lancelot studied him for a moment longer before he cleared his throat. 

“Just remembered something,” he replied, then paused. It felt foolish to bring such insignificant details to Gawain’s attention, but Lancelot felt encouraged by the way he was obviously waiting for him to continue. That he wasn’t looked at only made it easier to speak. “A bird—raven. It came here the other day.”

Said out loud, it sounded even more inane than it did in his head. Gawain didn’t seem to mind though — if anything, he looked amused by the answer, and even more so by what was surely a very flustered expression on Lancelot’s face.

Looking up at him, he scoffed and shook his head, fingers tugging at the drawstring of the other vambrace. “The one you duelled with my shirt?”

Lancelot let out a breath, surprised. “Yes—how do you know?”

A wince flashed across Gawain’s face, there and gone in a blink. He turned away, putting the vambraces down with the rest of his armour on the rack that stood just by the desk. In the candlelight, the hardened leather pieces properly shone. 

“Saw you battling it in the window.”

Brow crinkling, Lancelot looked up at the ceiling again, trying to figure out why he hadn’t seen Gawain approach the house. He must have been too distracted by preventing the raven from breaking in and desecrating the room. It had indeed been a battle – still, it rubbed him wrong that he hadn’t been aware of someone watching him. 

Shifting under the blanket, cheek coming to rest on his arm again, he glanced back at Gawain who had just finished shrugging out of his gambeson. 

“I didn’t know you were there,” Lancelot said finally. 

“Was just out looking for some kindling for the fire — Cecily asked me to.” Gawain shrugged as he reached up to sweep his hair and twist it into a loose braid he wore for the night. “I am surprised I haven’t dug a trench yet in front of the house with all of this running back and forth.”

Biting back a fleeting smile, Lancelot looked away for a short moment, then shifted his eyes back. The widow — Cecily — seemed to secretly enjoy ordering Gawain around, but it was hardly what occupied the most of his day. Lancelot had barely seen him the last couple of days, but it seemed that some of the less important duties had migrated from the council room to the attic.

“You seem to be doing others’ work, too,” he remarked quietly, curling his fingers into a fist to ground himself. It wasn’t his place to go around giving comments like that.

Once again, Gawain just huffed, his gaze still resting on the bunch of keys laying on the desk next to the jug of water. “Perhaps. But with the allies we have, the elders need me.”

“You mean raiders?” 

Lancelot recalled the brawls occasionally erupting between hot-headed northerners and Fey. If he had to guess, the former seemed to share his stance that the Fey kind were inherently mischievous creatures at fault for every little mishap that befell their ranks. 

Pouring the water into the tankard, Gawain nodded. “Them, too.”

“You have other allies..?” Lancelot wondered aloud, watching absently how the man’s throat bobbed before a soft thud of the empty tankard and the jangle of the keys made him tear his eyes away.

Taking a key off the chain, Gawain smirked wryly. “Curiosity killed the cat, Lancelot.”

Falling quiet, Lancelot tensed, but Gawain’s breathing remained steady, a small smile still resting on his lips. The floorboards creaked as he made his way over, steps muted by woollen socks. 

When he crouched next to him, Lancelot did not stretch out his hand as he usually did — not even when Gawain held out his own, scarred palm facing up. The silence stretched, but it didn’t become suffocating. Perhaps it was the fact that Gawain’s lips were still curled in that easy smile that made the situation feel less tense. The chain clinked softly when he picked it up, letting the links glide over his fingers before dropping it back on the floor. He still didn’t demand his hand, and Lancelot, willing to gamble, hurried to speak.

“Why do you still do this?”

Without saying a word, Gawain raised his eyebrows. A curl of dread twisted Lancelot’s stomach, stunning him momentarily into silence, but reassured by the soft inquisitive sound the man made, he propped himself up on his elbow and continued. 

“We slept side by side in that forest—and I was unchained at the healers. Will be for training, too. Why do it here then?”

“Take it as a compliment,” Gawain smirked, but then his face turned serious again. “Your nightmares, mostly. I’ve seen fighters turn violent even against their own family when they woke up and could not understand what was real and what was not.” 

Lancelot’s stomach churned at the memories of waking up so frightened he’d kicked at whoever that was who had been touching him. He supposed Gawain was right – the children of the widow sometimes tried to sneak into the room when Gawain left him there alone for one reason or another. 

Attracted by the bogeyman chained in their attic, they were curious and reckless, and Lancelot had heard them hovering outside the door more than once. They did it not only because they were naive, but because for all the stories, they had never actually seen him do anything scary. If they startled him awake though, it wouldn’t remain so—and he had no desire to see any of them hurt because his first instinct was to lash out. 

Rendered speechless by Gawain’s argument, he averted his eyes, forcing down the petulant thought of how unfair it felt — he had only ever made this mistake once here.

Gawain, who was apparently thinking about the same morning, tilted his head. “Was it even a nightmare, though?”

Licking his lips, Lancelot nodded crisply, keen on not meeting the man’s gaze. 

“Still don’t want to tell me what it was about? It might help,” Gawain said, his voice brimming with such genuine curiosity that it stilled Lancelot’s knee-jerk refusal. Some of his dreams weren’t like the others, not just mere wisps of smoke curling into bizarre visions. That one had felt so vividly real, that he wondered, as he picked at the hem of the blanket, whether it could have been something more.

Slowly, he shifted his gaze from the floor to the green eyes that watched him calmly, only good-natured amusement shining in them and no malice. 

“You.”

“Me?” Gawain’s eyebrows lifted, a gleam of candlelight igniting a spark in his eyes. “And what did I do?”

Bits and pieces from the dream flooded back, replaying in rapid succession before his mind’s eye. The sound of Gawain’s voice, the scratch of his beard, the sight of the blood splattered on his face – the hairs at the back of Lancelot’s neck rose. 

With his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, he couldn’t find the nerve to reply. Abandoning the idea, he swallowed dryly and looked away. He could only hope his hesitation would be interpreted as unwillingness to recall the frightening details – and not the ones he was actually recalling right now.

“Alright, keep your secrets,” Gawain muttered with a faint smile and then paused, studying him. His gaze wandered lower and he inhaled as if to say something, but didn’t utter a word.

The silence stretched taut between them. Lancelot frowned and shifted: it felt as if the gaze on him burnt like a ray of sunlight, a scorching spot that slid down his body. “What?”

The sharp, curious eyes darted up and Gawain leant slightly back, settling on the floor next to him. 

“You can ask Polly for a sleeping draught,” he said airily with a nonchalant flick of his wrist. “How is she treating you, by the way?”

“Fair.” 

Head cocking to the other side, Gawain obviously waited for him to elaborate. When Lancelot stalled, he arched an inquisitive brow. 

As though in spite, his mind turned up blank. There wasn’t anything else to say. The scorching focus returned at once, falling low-low-low; almost as if Gawain was looking at his mouth. Absently, Lancelot raised a hand to scrub at the week-old scruff, hoping deep down that would make it easier to endure that scrutinizing gaze. 

“Well,” Gawain sighed after a moment’s pause, reaching out to take his hand and tug it gently into the cuff, the small smile still resting on his lips. “Seems like you find birds easier to talk about. Maybe I should take you for a hunt – who knows, you might even give me a full sentence.”

Eyes riveted to the cold steel wrapped around his wrist again, Lancelot narrowed his gaze and pressed his lips into a thin line, frustration clawing at his chest. “Why are you mocking me?”

Gawain paused, fingertips lingering feather-light right over the ring of steel. 

“Not mocking,” he grinned slowly, “teasing. There’s a difference.”

If there was one, Lancelot wasn’t sure he grasped it, but before he could ponder the matter further, Gawain clasped the juncture between his neck and shoulder, squeezing tightly, and then pushed to stand. 

“Do you want anything?” he enquired and when Lancelot shook his head, gave him a thin smile. “Sure? Well. Good night, then.”

Turning around, he stepped back to the table. Lancelot watched him for a moment longer, their odd exchange still echoing within him. After tugging the tunic off, Gawain stretched with a deep sigh, and the muscles of his back rolled under the sun-kissed skin, painted golden by the warm glow of the candlelight. 

The chain rattled against the floor when Lancelot burrowed under the blanket once more, curling in on his side. He still didn’t take his eyes off the pale ribbons of scars crisscrossing the broad back, off the strong curve of the shoulders. It felt like theft, but for once, no one was there to catch him, and he wanted to take advantage of that.

One by one, Gawain blew the candles out. With the tendrils of smoke dissipating around him and the shifting shadows wrapped around his frame, Lancelot was reminded of the forest spirits from the tales nuns had spoken about in his youth. Those had been the tales of souls lost in the mortal world, trapped between heaven and hell.

But he was still a man of flesh and blood – and an almost naked one at that. 

Lancelot hastened to close his eyes when Gawain hooked his thumbs into the hem of his trousers to drag them down. The soft rustle of fabric thankfully covered a soft inhale he took when the motion echoed with an insistent tug in his stomach.

It was a fluke, nothing more. 

The bed creaked softly when Gawain slid under the coverlet. The wind had picked up slightly, rustling the foliage beyond the window, and the owls hooted — the usual sounds of the peaceful night. Somewhere far in the distance, a dog barked once and then fell quiet. 

With all those perfectly ordinary sounds weaving into a wordless lullaby, Lancelot felt just how tired he was – eyes sliding shut, body sagging heavily against the bedroll, breaths coming in slower, deeper. Embraced by the warmth that not even the gust of wind from the slightly open window could steal, he began to drift off. 

… An odd sound ripped him from the embraces of sleep. It was low—quiet, but enough to make his heart skip a beat, eyes flying open in an instant. It took him another moment to realise it was the quiet sound of spit being gathered that disturbed the silence. 

Blinking owlishly to sharpen his eyes in the dark, Lancelot didn’t miss the smallest intake of breath at the first touch, followed by the slick, obscene sound of skin on skin. 

The heat in his stomach rekindled, even worse now that the haze of sleep clouded his mind. His heart pounded hard, blood rushing wildly in his ears. Realising that the last thing he wanted was to see any clearer in this darkness, he squeezed his eyes shut tightly, reaching for the familiar comfort of prayer. It had always helped when he had to fight his own lust. The words were soothing, strict, and…

… and utterly unhelpful in the face of someone else’s depravity. Distantly, he realised that the mere act wasn’t reprehensible. Gawain had given no oaths that would have required his chastity. Men had needs, and they were housed together, and…

… and a quiet, stifled groan made Lancelot forget what he was thinking.

At first, he hoped he had imagined it. But then the heavy breathing hitched again, trailed off in a quiet gasp. Burning with indignant shame, Lancelot bit his lip and tried to pick up the thread of the prayer again – only to lose it on the second word when another sharp intake of breath sounded and a soft, strangled _fuck_ followed.

He wondered if he could pull the blanket over his head without giving away that he was still awake, but the silence was too pristine – he could hear every sound, every breath, every whisper of fabric as Gawain shifted. Blush burning on his cheeks and blood rushing south, Lancelot tried again, but the weave of the words ripped apart and tangled with every inhale Gawain took, with every soft sound of his palm gliding wetly down his cock. 

Against his own will, he thought back to when they had bathed together shortly after coming home. The many glimpses of Gawain’s naked body he had caught back then tore at his restraint now, not stopping no matter how hard he squeezed his eyes shut or repeated the first line of the prayer, the rest of it gone from his memory. 

A soft gasp made his stomach clench. In the fraught quiet, the strained moan that came after was so loud that it erased the last traces of sleep from his mind. The deafening silence in Lancelot’s head was suddenly empty of any prayers, any thoughts at all. All he could think about was that single intimate sound. 

Though it didn’t remain alone for long – he could now pick up more and more of them.

The heavy, ragged breaths, hitching in rhythm with the quiet glide of moist skin, the soft rustle of linen. The musky, salty scent reached his nose and curled in, unavoidable, teasing and heady. It was delicious: a hint of clean sweat, underlined with salt, sage and vervain, the latter growing stronger with every minute. It made him want to open his mouth to savour it, but he clenched his jaw tight to resist. 

He didn’t dare to open his eyes, didn’t even dare to breathe deeply, and his head was starting to swim. It was hardly from the lack of air—rather from the way Gawain moaned again, low and short, but so startlingly clear in the still air of the attic.

On the sharper intake of breath followed by another barely audible curse, Lancelot couldn’t take it anymore. Slowly, as slowly as if he was hunting, laying in wait for the prey, he opened his eyes and glanced at Gawain. 

The outline of his profile against the wall was painted by the glimmer of pale moonlight streaming through the margin in the shutters. The dim light laid like a veil over the dark skin, casting deep shadows under his cheekbones. It sharpened the angles of his hawkish nose and threw a shadow of the long curling eyelashes on his cheeks. It touched the stern, sinful lips – it was such a contradiction. The lines along them hinted at the frown, yet right now there was a curve to them that was only unbridled pleasure.

All of the lingering thoughts abandoned Lancelot as he watched, mesmerized by how it seemed as if Gawain lay upon an altar, illuminated only by the pale moonlight. 

To his immense relief, the knight wasn’t looking at him. His half-closed eyes were fixed on the ceiling, one arm pillowed under the head while the other moved in slow upward movements—and then sharper on the way down. He seemed to be lost to the world completely as he arched up slightly, his features twisting, the faintest sheen of sweat above his upper lip and on his throat.

The steady rhythm had turned almost violent by now, started to stutter just as his breathing did. Biting his lip, Gawain canted his hips up and spread his thighs, his fist pumping between them. It was accompanied by a low, but so unabashed groan that it would have probably woken Lancelot up anyway, were he sleeping. 

Stunned by it, he forgot to look away and just watched as Gawain turned his head slightly. The dark blush dusted his cheeks, and his lips were parted, the gleam in the half-closed green eyes bright and beguiling. He was absolutely sinful. He was beautiful.

And he was looking right at him.

Lancelot met his eyes like a deer staring at a pack of wolves. 

Eyes twinkling cunningly, Gawain gave him a slow, wry grin before turning away. The hint of that smile remained, even though his brows pulled together. Biting his lip, he tugged down again, firmer this time, and tilted his hips up at the same time to thrust into his fist. 

_Please_ , Lancelot wanted to say, almost did, mouth already opening, and he only caught the words when a shuddering exhale already betrayed him. He wasn’t sure what he was asking for, but Gawain must have heard, because he smirked again, not even taking his eyes off the ceiling. 

And then, swallowing thickly, he threw his head back and arched up. With a shuddering, hitching moan that was so utterly broken, so wonderfully wanton, he spilt over his fingers, pearly seed spurting and then trickling down his knuckles.

When the salty, musky scent of it, mingled with vervain, hit his nose, Lancelot physically coiled inwards. Shoulders hunching, hands closing into fists around the blanket – a voice at the back of his head screamed at him to pull the covers over his head, to hide and not let his eyes rest on such perversions, but he couldn’t move a muscle. It felt as futile as wrangling a hungry wolf with his bare hands. 

The fabric rustled as Gawain rolled out of bed. The floorboards only creaked once when he walked to the table, feet silent against the floor. His breathing was calm again and steady, only a single deep inhale and slow exhale to indicate anything happened. 

Lancelot realised he wouldn’t have heard any of that if it wasn’t on purpose. His stomach clenched, this time in shame at the implication of being tested and failing – even though the arousal still bled in as he looked helplessly at Gawain’s scarred back.

It was all pure, silent force with only an occasional hint of vulnerability—a sharp angle of the shoulder blade under the soft skin; gentle dips just above his hips, above the firm, enticing curve of his ass. 

There was also a scar that Lancelot had left on his back, the scar that he wanted to press his mouth against and worship. It was the silent admission of guilt and the unapologetic triumph of life that tied them together, and it made him ache. 

He could never be that moonlight that touched Gawain’s skin. But he could be the shadows cast in it, clinging to the sharp angles with blind, mute adoration. He already did that. 

The pull in his stomach was nearly as strong as the one in his chest as Lancelot watched how Gawain turned his head. It was just enough to reveal a downcast eye, a slightly furrowed brow, a relaxed curve of his mouth.

“Did you like it?” he asked calmly, throwing his head back and looking at the ceiling again – the auburn hair spilt over his shoulders, heavy strands uncurling over the tanned skin.

Lancelot swallowed, licked his lips and didn’t utter a word.

“No?” Gawain paused wiping his hands clean, then turned around.

God, but the man was beautiful. Strange, at times, and willing to push him just to see if he would fall whenever they argued, but it didn’t take away the simple truth that he had never seen anyone who looked like that. 

“What does it matter?” he forced out. “It’s not for me.”

“Why?” Came a calm question that made him choke in an inhale. “Have you just never felt the urge? Or is it something you see as sin, too? Like laughter, like wine?”

“Yes,” Lancelot said, his voice ringing hollow and distant. “It is a sin.”

“So, you’ve never done it?” Gawain wondered, leaning against the table. He was in no hurry to cover himself, seemingly unbothered by his nakedness, a sly smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Not even when you were young? Come on, that can’t be true. Someone must have caught your eye.”

“They did,” Lancelot replied, because it didn’t matter, his silence would have been an admission in itself. The least he could do was to find the courage to confess.

“And?” Gawain’s eyebrows rose, delight lighting his face, and he settled more comfortably, crossing his arms and ankles.

Closing his eyes in mortification, Lancelot exhaled slowly, then opened them again. He pushed himself up to sit with a sigh, hand coming to scrub over his face before he finally replied: “I’ve sinned. Does it sate your curiosity?”

The sharp grin was his reply, teeth glinting in the dark. 

“For now, yes. Though that’s hardly a sin. Just means there is a real man behind that stoic mask of yours,” Gawain remarked, then tilted his head. “And who was it?”

Swallowing dryly, Lancelot tore his eyes away from the shifting muscles of his stomach, clear even in the scarce light cast by the moon. He didn’t know how his gaze ended there again. It felt as the taunting sunkissed skin, with its scatter of scars under the fine dark hairs, drew it like lodestone did iron.

“Just a novice,” he said, hoping that would be enough. All he could remember was reddish hair that spun in perfect curls, the soft prickle of stubble when they had kissed and the easy laughter after. Too easy for the hallways of the abbey. “What does it matter?”

“Just wonder who could make you doubt your vows,” Gawain grinned. 

The joke wasn’t lost on Lancelot, but he refused to acknowledge it with a smile. Instead, he snapped his eyes up, fury filling him like liquid fire at such blatant mockery. 

“What about you?” he challenged.

Gawain dodged the attack with a nonchalant shrug. “No vows to stop me.”

Lips twisting in a frustrated grimace, Lancelot frowned. “What people catch your eye?”

There was a minute pause, and then Gawain’s lips stretched in a smirk. But his eyes turned guarded as he leaned slightly back, rolling his shoulders. “Why do you ask?”

Mouth turning dry, Lancelot refused to back down. Bowing his head stubbornly, he narrowed his eyes. “You always ask me things.”

“Fair. Alright then.” Gawain paused as if savouring the way Lancelot glared at him, then shrugged again. “Fiery gingers.”

Disappointment tightened around his throat like a noose, briefly cutting the air off. Struggling to breathe through it, Lancelot kept his face carefully blank. All those bleeding, inflamed scars he had always hidden behind rigid posture and dark fabric had given him plenty of practice with that.

Nothing in Gawain’s face hinted at anger, but the voice of reason was screaming at Lancelot that it was hardly an appropriate topic to discuss with his—who was Gawain to him, again? It didn’t matter. The desperate itch under his skin and the desire to pounce at the knight while he seemed to be on the defensive prevailed.

“Is that what happened with Faya?” he blurted and then flushed, hunching in on himself. “I apologise, it’s…”

“She told you the story?” Gawain interrupted with a wince, then sighed, bowing his head and glanced away, absently rubbing at the dip between his collarbones. “Well – she did have a knife to my throat after having what I genuinely thought was a nice conversation. But that is not the kind of fiery I meant.”

“What is?” Lancelot asked quietly, feeling as if he was following a thread that was supposed to take him out of the woods, but only lead him further into their depths. 

When Gawain looked up, his eyes were sharp again, but for a brief moment, there was wistfulness that softened the lines of his face. It disappeared so quickly that Lancelot wasn’t even sure he didn’t imagine it. 

“Someone who knows how to take a joke and make one. Who is not afraid of telling me when I act foolish.”

He said it in such a matter-of-fact tone that Lancelot couldn’t help but feel that he was talking about someone specific. Among all men and women in the camp, only a handful of faces came to his mind. 

But only one had fox-red hair. 

“Few people who are like that,” he muttered quietly, shifting a bit to crawl deeper into the shadow, hoping it would conceal his face.

“Very few,” Gawain agreed, then scrunched his nose and covered a yawn with his hand. “Bonding over midnight gossip is good, but we do need to sleep. You good there? Need me to unchain you for a bit? No? As you wish.”

Shaking his head mutely, Lancelot looked away. For a short moment, the silence hung in the air, and then the floorboard creaked again. The thin beam of moonlight crawled down the wall. The owl hooted, again, and the robins chirped, forlorn, in the woods. 

The room still smelled like sin.

“Good night, Ashman,” Gawain called out in that jolly way that even though he couldn’t see his smile as he turned and laid down, back facing him, Lancelot could hear his smile. 

Gritting his teeth, he started the prayer again.

* * *

The loud thrill of a blackbird woke him up. With the world hushed in pre-dawn twilight around him, it took him a long moment to remember where he was. Confused and waking quicker than his body agreed, he pushed himself up to sitting with a groan and glanced around. Blink by blink, the world sharpened around him as his eyes roamed the room: the slanted ceiling and its weathered mid-beam, the window shutter left ajar to let daylight in, the half-melted candles that without their bright flames seemed as drowsy as he felt. 

It felt like he’d blinked once and now suddenly it was morning, but perhaps it’d been one of those strikingly vivid nightmares again.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, gaze falling on Gawain who stretched and then threw the blanket – that already barely covered his hips – off, getting up. Lancelot looked away as if slapped across the face when the memories of the night came flooding back. The sight of the stained, discarded cloth by the desk made his stomach clench. 

So, not another not-a-nightmare.

By tacit agreement, they went about their morning without saying more than a phrase or two to each other. The silence was as fragile as if one careless remark could bring back yesterday’s events and force them to face them. Lancelot didn’t want that, and with the way Gawain barely uttered a word either, he seemed to be of the same mind. 

But perhaps he guarded his tongue for an entirely different reason. When they were getting breakfast together, Lancelot shot him furtive glances from where he sat by the table, trying to parse out the strange expression on Gawain’s face. His lips were curved in a crooked smile that was unnervingly at odds with thoughtful, hard eyes.

Even a blind man could see that there was an edge to him as he prepared their breakfast, some barely restrained energy that was overflowing. The knife in his hand cut into the board with a bit too much force, the plate he put on the table made a loud thud that made Lancelot jump. 

Every time he looked at Gawain, the memory of that salty scent tickled his nose and brought a heat to his cheeks that he couldn’t fight back. It only got worse when Gawain reached over his shoulder from behind to place a plate before him, making him go stiff and forget how to breathe all at once. Pausing as if he had sensed that, Gawain lingered for a short moment, before drawing away without saying a word. Only then did Lancelot manage to exhale.

Perhaps Kaze noticed something was off between them. She had joined them for breakfast, and now she glanced between them, raising a brow and gesturing with her piece of bread in a silent question. Gawain just shrugged, muttering something about nightmares while Lancelot stared at the apple he was clutching in a white-knuckled grip.

The silver lining was that the first time in a while, the ache from the sprain wasn’t even noticeable. The Fey potions had truly done wonders, dark sorcery or not.

Once they got to the healers, even Polly raised her eyebrows. She took out the stitches without a word, the skin around them still tender and red, but she cleaned him up swiftly, straightening to put the ruined rags away before wiping her hands. When Lancelot looked up impatiently, she huffed and, at long last, deemed him sufficiently healed to start training.

Gawain, who had been hovering nearby as he chatted with Pym, gave him a radiant smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He clasped him on the shoulder so hard that Lancelot swayed a bit on the bench before mustering a tentative smile back. As if to encourage him, Gawain squeezed the back of his neck.

“Ready for it?” he asked in a low voice.

Licking his lips, Lancelot gave a curt nod, acutely aware of just how much he needed a distraction, a way to burn some of the restless need for action that thrummed under his skin radiating from Gawain’s hand.

“Splendid. Kaze will take you to the town hall to get your sword after you’re done here.” 

Heart soaring, Lancelot positively lit up at the news, his smile growing wider even as Gawain still lingered nearby. His hand still rested on Lancelot’s nape, a warm steadying presence. Without a thought, he leaned into it, just the slightest shift – and almost immediately recoiled, remembering himself.

Oblivious to his misstep, Gawain clapped him on the back, and after a quick goodbye kiss to Pym, dove out of the door. She rubbed at her cheek as she followed him with wide eyes, a frown and a smile warring on her face. She looked slightly taken aback, but that was little consolation for Lancelot, who suddenly felt in need of one for the reasons he adamantly refused to admit even to himself.

When he met Pym’s gaze it was enough to snuff out the light glimmering in her eyes. Huffing, she scrunched her nose and spun around on her heel, marching off. If her long tresses were snakes, they would have probably hissed at him.

Standing up as well, Lancelot retreated to the silence of his usual chores with a heavy heart. He went through another batch of vials ruined by Guiscard’s experiments, swept the floor, gathered laundry, ensured that the fire wouldn’t go out in the hearth—yet all that time, his thoughts were in disarray.

He told himself that the wistful pang in his chest was nothing. Even if this space had grown familiar, he didn’t belong here, and the end of his last day with the healers couldn’t come quicker.

In the afternoon, when the others departed – apprentices to the tavern and Guiscard to the laboratory room, with equally dreamy expressions on their faces – he and Pym remained behind to make sure everything was in place for tomorrow. Apart from them and the snoozing patients, only Kaze remained in the hall, keeping an eye on him as she leaned against the wall and conversed with Polly in a hushed voice. 

Looked like it wouldn’t be quiet in here for much longer – he heard her mention that another batch of refugees might come in soon, though it promised to be smaller than the ones before. The women took caution not to mention where they would come from, but at one point Kaze let it slip that there was no risk of animal bites when asked about treatments to plan. 

It appeared that Gawain was really going to evacuate every single Fey still remaining somewhere in human towns. That again reminded Lancelot of half-bloods, the ones stubborn enough to remain in man blood settlements, clinging to the illusion of safety they found in their routine, half-bloods like that strange man who had vanished seemingly into thin air. 

Unease filled him at the memory, and he rubbed at his forehead with a soft sigh. It felt as if he was a worn-out string, stretched taut to the point of tearing. The night’s events had kept him awake, had left him tossing and turning with that prayer echoing in his mind alongside the lustful gasps and moans. 

Shaking his head to get rid of the thoughts, frightening and tempting at once, Lancelot walked toward the back door. He came to halt in the doorway, leaning against it as he watched Pym who was fetching more water from the well with a bitter twist to his lips. The sight of her unruly locks spilling over her shoulder reminded him of that breakfast they had shared last week – when Gawain had reached out to save her shiny locks from a dip in the porridge. 

A thorn pricked his chest, evoking a sharp sting. Narrowing his eyes, he whistled quietly, making Pym look up sharply.

“Catch,” he said as he picked up the empty bucket just by his feet, throwing it her way. She fumbled, but managed to snatch it before it hit her on the forehead—she was getting better at that at least.

“Go to hell,” Pym muttered under her breath, turning around to tie the rope around the handle. The bucket swayed wildly from the force with which she did it.

“I can hear you,” Lancelot informed her darkly, leaning against the doorframe for a moment longer out of sheer spite. 

Pausing with one hand on the wheel and the other pressed flat on the mossy stones of the well, she looked up at him and repeated, slower and louder this time, her dark-ringed eyes filled with cold anger: 

“Did you? Oh, well—go. To. Hell.”

Her face was locked in a stubborn, grim expression he had rarely seen her wear before. For an instant, it took him aback, but then he narrowed his gaze again. Her enormous light eyes brimmed with pure disgust as she refused to look away. Feeling as if he was caught in some silent jousting, Lancelot frowned and set his jaw. Picking up fights with women was below him, but right now he found he didn’t care.

Lips twitching in a snarl, he pushed off the doorframe, wind clawing in his clothes as he marched over to Pym. When he came closer, looming over her smaller frame, she swallowed thickly, taking a step back, but immediately frowned and regained her ground.

“Kaze is still here,” she said through clenched teeth, reaching for the wheel again, the wood creaking quietly as the rope crawled up and up. At least she finally looked away, now burning a hole in the dewy stones.

“I know,” he replied evenly, propping his hip against the wall of the well and crossing his arms. The silence between them was sizzling, only the soft splash of water and the croaking of the crows hunting for the scraps of the garbage in the backyard to break it. Despite his less than pleasant company, Lancelot stubbornly stayed rooted in place – the sun didn’t hide behind the thunderclouds today, and he craved to linger in its warmth. 

Even mellow weather did little to improve his mood, which soured further as they hauled the water up and made their way back inside the inn. When Lancelot fetched the yesterday runaway’s ruined shirt to use as a rag and knelt, scrubbing the grime out of the wood, he could feel Pym’s heavy stare drill in between his shoulder blades. 

The water splashed over the rim when she dropped the bucket next to him and trickled down on the floor, a silent challenge. Looking up grimly, Lancelot scowled, but Pym just raised her chin and lifted her eyebrows. With a defiant look on her face, she toed the bucket closer to him—and kept pushing until it tipped precariously on one side.

He caught it by the edge with one hand before it could spill all over the floor and yanked the bucket away fast enough that Pym stumbled, nearly losing her balance. Surprisingly, she recovered in time, and swiftly stepped out of his reach, still not looking away.

“Don’t anger me,” Lancelot warned under his breath, his voice turning hoarse and gravelly with tension. He could see her eyes widen for a moment, but in a blink she bowed her head and narrowed her gaze.

“What will you do? Murder me?” She made a face, leaning down to throw the rag over the broomstick, and swipe at the floor with such force as if she was trying to beat it up. “Everyone will know it’s you.”

Leaning back, Lancelot kept silent for a moment as he slowly wrung out the rag, water dripping over his fingers, the fabric twisting and almost tearing in his white-knuckled grip.

“Will they?” he said finally, almost to himself, his eyes fixed firmly on the bound iron chest where he knew the healers kept the more potent poisons. It was locked, but with the pin that he had recovered covertly as he wiped the floor, he could try to pry it open. A foolish, spiteful thought, but it made him want to laugh. 

Glancing between him and the chest, Pym paused, water dripping from the rag, before she scoffed and wiped the little puddle away. “You know I can tell Gawain you said that, right?”

Laying the rag aside and standing up, he shrugged with one shoulder. “If you want to be even more of a burden.” 

“A burden..?”

It was barely audible over the splash of water, but he smiled all the same at the uncertainty in her voice, then forced his face into the usual impassive expression before turning away. Joining her at the table, he paused, glanced over at Kaze. She was still engrossed in her conversation with Polly, who nodded repeatedly in response to slightly frustrated gestures. 

Shifting his eyes to Pym, who was looking at him with a faint frown creasing her forehead, he tilted his head and savoured the look on her face.

“You are hardly good at anything,” he said evenly, low enough that only she would hear, and felt a dull tug in his stomach at the sight of her rapidly paling cheeks.

“And you’re what, good at killing?” she muttered with effort, turning around abruptly and reaching out for the herbs laying across one of the tables, fumbling with them. It looked like she was simply trying to get her hands on anything that could provide the smallest distraction. “I can’t believe you’re proud of that. I bet Gawain isn’t.”

Lancelot flinched hard.

“At least I can make sure he stays alive,” he said and couldn’t help a grim smirk when Pym tensed, spine going stiff and grip turning white-knuckled as he came closer— 

—then she spun around and whipped him straight across the face with the bundle of grasses she was holding. 

It was nettle, the scent said as much. 

With a strained curse, Lancelot bent in half, pressing his palms against his face, but it only seemed to aggravate the burn further. Next to him, the air shifted and he tensed before hearing Kaze mutter under her breath: “Easy, Ashman.”

Swallowing thickly, he nodded. Blinking back tears, he heard Polly approach, demanding to know what happened, followed by Pym’s stuttered apologies, at which he finally looked up. 

“Why did you do it?” he hissed, glaring at her through the splayed fingers, and then slowly took them away, feeling as if they had left the scorched imprints behind. 

“Because you are an arrogant asshole!” Pym cried out, jabbing a finger in his chest, her mouth twisted in a scowl. When he frowned, taken aback by her ferocity, her face turned outright murderous.

“You! You—you didn’t flinch when you watched my friends burn—and now you wrinkle your nose at sluicing a wound! You are just a heartless, cruel murderer who is only alive because..!” She choked on the next words, a gurgling strained noise in her throat as she gasped once more, then swore, chucked the rug down and stormed out of the inn.

The door thudded deafeningly behind her, and Lancelot froze, acutely aware of two women staring him down like enraged snakes. More serpents yet writhed in his stomach, eating at his insides. 

This time it was definitely guilt.

“What did you say to her?” Polly scowled.

“Nothing,” Lancelot hurried to say, his voice breaking before he looked away, blinking rapidly as the nettle kept burning at his face, the sting only magnifying with every touch of air. “Just advice.”

“What advice?”

He paused, lowering his eyes, dull ache in his straining shoulders as he barely audibly whispered: “To be useful.”

Her eyes flickered to the door again and she frowned, but stepped back, shaking her head, before glancing back at him. 

“This is ridiculous. You two are no better than children. Was it nettle? It's the smell, right?” She put a hand on his shoulder and urged him to tilt his head as she inspected the burn. When he gave a stiff nod, she huffed out a small laugh, guiding him by the elbow to the water basin. “Of all the things to take you out...”

He would have glared if he could unglue his eyes, but the tears stuck his eyelashes together and he only hunched on himself, feeling around with one hand for the chair and cautiously lowering himself on it. Polly kept silent, but her stern stare weighed down on his shoulders. Drawing a shaky breath in, Lancelot started speaking. 

“She is wrong—I respect your work,” he insisted quietly, voice quivering with tension. “But I am a tracker, it is–difficult, with my senses…”

The shameful admission came with such effort that his throat closed around the next inhale, and when Polly shifted, he fell silent, pulling his shoulders up out of habit. However, instead of telling him off for his weakness, Polly reached her hand to one of the shelves on the potion cabinet and plucked the small wooden jar, dripping a couple of drops onto the piece of cloth before giving it to him.

“Here,” she said in a low voice. “Wash off and dab this. Dab, not rub.” 

Shying away from her touch, he shook his head once, wringing his hands together to stop them from pressing to his face in an attempt to smother the burn. “Not enough of it.”

“Lancelot,” Polly interrupted, not unkindly. “Stop it. I do not think you are a heartless murderer. I know you are doing what you can. Also, your face is tragic enough without nettle rash. And it’s an easy salve to make, no need for you to—worry.”

Her tongue stumbled over the word as if she couldn’t quite wrap her head around the implication behind it. Listening to the slow, measured breaths of Kaze who stood still like a statue next to him, Lancelot bowed his head and breathed in deeply. He felt horribly out of his depth once again.

Obeying was the easiest thing to do.

Pushing up, he wordlessly took the cloth and turned to the basin. Mind numb, he bent over it and splashed the blissfully cold water on his burning skin. The world cleared up a bit with each blink as he let the droplets slide down his face. Once he could open his eyes again, he gingerly picked up the cloth and pressed it to his face, almost moaning in relief.

“Better?” Polly inquired strictly, and he gave her a small nod. The burn was abating fast, soothed by the cool tincture. Lancelot lowered himself back on the chair with a sigh, listening to the quiet murmurs as the women talked a couple paces away from him.

“How long did Pym sleep today?” Kaze asked softly and Polly sighed as she rummaged through the bundles of herbs, idly rearranging them into neater lines.

“Not nearly long enough,” she muttered with dejected air and shook her head. “I’ll talk to her about it.”

“Please do,” Kaze murmured, glancing at him, a flash of worry on her face before she continued in a lower voice. “Gawain has enough on his plate right now without his sworn sister getting into fights with his ward.”

“Not everything is about Gawain, you know,” Polly noted with a sour twist to her mouth as she turned around the bundles of yarrow, some of them already wilting despite their best efforts to preserve them.

“Today, it might be,” Kaze sighed, making Lancelot perk up his ears, eyes flickering to her from behind the cover of his grown out curls. “I will go soon, see that he has not torn anyone apart after today’s meeting. It was bad enough before, but with the entire crew back…” 

She was interrupted by an urgent voice that sounded from the door, summoning Polly—giving him a quick glance, the healer turned on her heel, walking to meet the new patients, a moonwing boy and his mother. With one eye open and the other hidden behind the cool cloth, Lancelot watched them approach, the feathers around the child’s eyes wet from tears and the mother’s bristling in a worried frown.

Turned out, the boy had managed to break an arm running around in some dangerous game of tag the children had invented just today. Not surprisingly, Percival’s name popped up, and Polly tsked severely, giving the boy’s mother a stern promise to talk to Gawain about his ward.

“Come, little bird, don’t cry,” she said strictly but not unkindly. “You’re too big for it — look at you, I can swear just last week you were smaller. Soon your head will brush the clouds.”

That brought a tentative smile to the child’s face, who barely reached up to the healer’s shoulder. Sniffling, he hiccuped once and sagged a bit, his mother rubbing small soothing circles into his back.

“He is big and he is crying,” the boy pointed out in a hushed voice, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, to which the mother just sighed, fishing out a small piece of cloth to press it into his small palm. Absently putting it down without bothering to use it, the boy looked up at Lancelot, who just finished dubbing the cloth with the ointment to his face. His eyes feeling terribly puffy, Lancelot held his gaze cautiously, face half-hidden behind the cloth he still had pressed to his cheek, its cool touch a pure bliss.

Polly glanced between them briefly, a small smile twitching the corner of her mouth. “Well, yes, but not because he is afraid. Come, Lancelot, help me get him to the bonesetter.”

“Is it necessary?” the mother protested, sweeping up in a flurry of skirts, and he paused, glancing between them uncertainly, his grip on the cloth tightening.

“Don’t worry—he knows better than to anger healers now. Right, Lancelot?” she huffed a small laugh, before reaching out to gently pry the cloth out of his hands. “And since you are so keen on telling others to learn, you might as well do it yourself.” 

Suddenly, Kaze muttered something quiet in Sylvan, to which Polly pursed her lips, shooting a quick phrase back without looking at her. Ignoring the doubtful glances the other women exchanged, she gestured for Kaze to follow, took him by the elbow and dragged him down the hallway.

“Moonwings have such fragile bones,” she said under her breath as they walked, shaking her head. “Break like twigs.”

“I know,” Lancelot muttered under his breath, then tensed and fell silent, the faint burn still itching under his skin but already subsiding. The ensuing silence was so excruciatingly awkward, and he felt it like a toothache, splitting and merciless. 

Finally, Polly cleared her throat meaningfully, pushing the door open. “What you don’t know is how to treat them.”

Lancelot looked up with a frown, unsure of whether he understood her correctly. When she raised her brows impatiently, he hurried to nod and, once she looked away, stepped closer to the wall, taking in his surroundings. It was a small room with a rickety cot, a locked wooden chest, and a table on which a blackbird chick with a bandaged wing laid in a nest made of scrap linen.

“A bird?” he asked incredulously, forgetting himself as he stared into its tiny beady eyes. It chirped in reply, struggling to get up, but failing. Behind him, Kaze shifted, her hand still resting idly on the pommel of the sword.

“What?” Polly frowned, glancing at him as she cracked open the door to the small back room, from which the mighty snoring modulations came. “Get up!” she barked and then said to the side with a displeased twist to her lips: “Old mule.”

“I heard that,” the bonesetter warned in a voice thick with sleep, following it with a rustle of straw and fabric as he must have gotten up.

“I never thought you wouldn’t,” Polly replied calmly, moving her eyes to the drowsy tusk who emerged from the room. Lancelot had seen him a couple of times during the aftermath of skirmishes with Cumber’s raiders, but he didn’t know his name. “If you weren’t so good at your trade, I would have put you in stocks for slacking off like this.”

“Well, good thing I _am_ that good, then,” he groused, returning her unimpressed stare with a calm, heavy look of unexpectedly clear and keen eyes. His hair was in slight disarray and his eyes were bloodshot, the faint old scent of stronger brews emanating from his skin as he rubbed at his eyes and stretched slowly. “What is it?”

“There is a patient,” Polly let him know primly, her lips pressed into a thin line and her eyes narrowed slightly. “A boy broke his arm. Go fix it. Lancelot will watch.”

Lancelot, who had been edging slowly towards the chick, vaguely agitated by its cries, froze. He wasn’t sure he would be welcome, but Polly probably knew better. Shifting into a more robust stance, he met the tusk’s eyes.

“Why?” he clarified, fixing Lancelot with the heavy stare that made him bristle. 

“He expressed interest in our craft,” Polly replied.

With a low rumble, the bonesetter shrugged and gave her a nod. “Fine.”

He crouched on the floor, retrieving a bundle of cloth from the small wooden chest while the head healer hovered over him with a vaguely menacing atmosphere he didn’t seem to pay any heed to.

Glancing between them, Lancelot clasped his wrist with the other hand. “Will you... kill the bird if it doesn’t get better?”

A beat of silence followed, full of confusion and tension, visible in Polly’s widened eyes and the stiff line of the tusk’s shoulders.

“What the fuck?” He looked up at him, stared for a moment, then threw an incredulous glance at Polly who shrugged helplessly. Looking back at Lancelot, the bonesetter frowned. “No.”

Falling silent, he glanced back at the chick, who had seemed to exhaust its lung capacity, at last, and was now just staring at him with its beak half open. Following his gaze, Polly huffed and came closer, gingerly picking it up. In the cradle of her palms, it perked up a bit and chirped once, as if to greet her.

Together, the four of them made their way back into the inn hall. The boy’s face lit up when he saw his distant cousin, and immediately his attention was absorbed by the story of how it found its way into the Fey healers’ hands. 

Apparently, Gawain had brought it in a couple of days ago. Swallowing thickly, Lancelot tried to reconcile the images in his head and failed miserably.

“Alright. I’ll show you the idea, then we all pray you get it right if you see someone’s bone stick out of them,” the bonesetter announced as he unwrapped the bundle, revealing a couple of sturdy wooden pieces and two small jars. “Truth be told, you need to get them to us, but it’s good to know how not to fuck them up on the way.”

“Who do healers pray to?” Lancelot wondered quietly, settling on the chair nearby to watch.

 _“Dian Cecht,”_ the bonesetter replied curtly, carefully picking up the boy’s arm by the thin wrist. “Let’s see...”

As he put it in a sling, he stopped every once in a while, pointing out what he was doing in brusque phrases. The explanations he gave contained far fewer magical words than Lancelot had expected and far more swear ones, but, he had to admit, it did make them very succinct and impressed in his memory. What he did not understand, Polly filled in.

At some point during the procedure, Guiscard slipped into the room, apparently in search of a tattered book he always carried around and had now misplaced. After he found it, clutching it to his chest with ginger care usually reserved for infants, he lingered, attracted by the explanation of pain relief that Polly was giving to Lancelot while the bonesetter was nodding along, tying off the last knot on the sling. 

Once she fell silent, there was a long moment of calm as Lancelot tried to process the information. The blackbird chirped once.

“Actually,” Guiscard broke the silence. “In my travels I encountered the most curious accident...”

While he spoke, the frowns on other Fey’s faces deepened, from which Lancelot surmised that the account of the events contradicted their beliefs significantly. The ensuing debate turned so heated that Polly had to put a warning hand on the bonesetter’s shoulder. The moonwings were listening, too — well, the woman was, the boy was too engrossed in petting the bird with his good arm. Even Kaze closed her book and leaned forward, glancing between the healers with an amused smirk.

Clearing her throat politely, the mother stood up, gently tugging the boy along. He seemed heartbroken to be separated with his new feathery friend, who he waved at — and then he waved at Lancelot, too. When he hesitantly gave a nod in response, the mother threw him a wary look. However, right after she paused, before mustering the faintest, tense smile. It didn’t last long—letting it drop, she hastened to leave, ushering her reluctant child out of the door.

When Lancelot looked back to find all three healers still deeply engrossed in their discussion, he let his shoulders drop. He barely understood a fraction of what they said, and so soon he grew bored. Using the rare occasion when no one was looking at him, he hesitantly reached out to run his finger down the blackbird’s beak. 

It did not break any further from it, only puffed up its feathers, and so he continued for a while. The soft, thrumming, warm ball of fluff half the size of his palm was oddly endearing, and Lancelot found himself utterly charmed. Bit by bit he edged closer, propping his chin on the arm he laid along the edge of the table. Stroking under the half-open beak, he only snapped his eyes up when Guiscard turned to him.

“What about Ashfolk? How did they treat those?” he wondered, then cocked his head to the side, further than a human, just like a bird could, and switched to French. “Ou préfères-tu que je parle dans ta langue maternelle?” 

Lancelot stopped gently stroking the black feathers and looked at him with wide eyes, the blackbird quivering under his palm.

“Je-Je ne suis pas sûr que ce soit autorisé,” he replied before realising he was already speaking in it as well. When he cast an anxious glance at Polly, she just smiled at him, an amused flicker in her eyes.

Encouraged by it, he licked his lips, glanced back at Guiscard and continued cautiously. “Je ne me rappel pas vraiment de la fabrication—j'étais trop jeune. Mais je me souviens de l'odeur d'ortie, d'ail et d'absinthe. Je pense que tout était bouilli dans du beurre jusqu'à ce que cela devienne uniformément rouge... Je ne l'ai vu préparé qu'une seule fois, les détails m'échappent.”

Notiicng they were all looking at him with slightly surprised expressions on their faces, he fell silent.

“Fascinating,” Guiscard murmured with a squint before he nodded to himself and turned around to relay the words to the other healers. With thoughtful frowns, they nodded. In the following brief silence, Polly’s smile grew a bit wider.

“Since we are all here already, let us teach you a lesson,” she said airily, looking Lancelot straight in the eye; immediately, he tensed, glancing anxiously between them to see Guiscard sigh softly and the tusk shake his head with a scoff. “So—imagine you see someone bleed. The blood flow is dark and slow. Where...”

Sagging into his seat, Lancelot tried to focus on her words and frowned before making a tentative guess. It turned out wrong, which was explained to him in strict words—and only that.

The next question he managed to figure out himself to Polly’s delighted grin. Before she could come up with another, the bonesetter cleared his throat and put down the flask. Leaning forward to put his elbows on the table, he inquired how Lancelot would make sure the wound would not get infected.

From there on, they didn’t even ask as much as told him things. Even Kaze piped in at one point, asking whether he had ever tried to treat himself; flustered, blinking rapidly, Lancelot shook his head.

By the end of their scholar debate turned joint lesson, his head was full of the names of different herbs, the ways to prepare ingredients and ensure he at least didn’t make the injuries worse. To his credit, once requested to repeat the most vital instructions, he recited them with only a couple of mistakes. 

Satisfied, the bonesetter and Guiscard stood up, the moonwing enthusiastically offering to take their debate to the laboratory. Letting out a soft sigh, Lancelot sagged in his seat. Patting him on the shoulder with a distinct air of pity – either for him or for his potential patients, it was unclear – Polly sighed.

“I know that was a lot, and we should have done it sooner, but I had no idea you would listen.”

“Why did you do it now, then?”

“Faya told me how you were curious about the herbs. And—I do not want you to think you do not have a choice in who to be. You are no healer, but at least now you know more than how to hurt someone,” she muttered. “I hope it helps.”

Startled, Lancelot stared at her for a moment before giving a nod. “I… Thank you. It... does seem to be more efficient than prayers.”

“I’d hope so,” she scoffed, then leaned back, crossing her arms. “If for some reason Gawain is not around, this should get you through most scrapes until you can get back to us. So… Now that your work here is over, you can go swing your sword around with him, or whatever it is you like to do in your spare time.”

“Does he also know how to heal...?” Lancelot wondered, and then made a soft protesting noise when the bird tried to peck at his finger. Tapping it admonishingly on the beak, he watched it tweet in confusion, then shushed it before it could dislocate its broken wing again.

“He knows some of this, yes,” Polly confirmed with the strange note in her voice that made him look up.

Taking his hand away from the bird, he studied the women, who were staring him down with identical pitiful and amused expressions. With a snort, Kaze shook her head, the dimples in her cheeks popping up as she tried to fight back a smile.

“I begin to wonder which one of us is a cat. Come – let’s give you back your claws.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations in case they do not display:
> 
> Ou préfères-tu que je parle dans ta langue maternelle? -- Or would you prefer me to speak in your native language?  
> Je-Je ne suis pas sûr que ce soit autorisé -- I—I am not sure it is allowed  
> Je ne me rappel pas vraiment de la fabrication—j'étais trop jeune. Mais je me souviens de l'odeur d'ortie, d'ail et d'absinthe. Je pense que tout était bouilli dans du beurre jusqu'à ce que cela devienne uniformément rouge... Je ne l'ai vu préparé qu'une seule fois, les détails m'échappent. -- I cannot quite recall how it was treated—I was too young. But I remember the scent of nettle, garlic and wormwood. And I think it was all boiled in butter until it turned evenly red..? I only saw it prepared a couple of times, so the details slip my memory.
> 
> Huge thanks to lucrethia for checking the French <3 The recipe Lancelot describes is from [here](https://www.abdn.ac.uk/sll/disciplines/english/lion/medicine.shtml).


	14. Hear, Hear - II

The wait dragged on. 

Lancelot stood in front of the council hall, and the only thing that separated him from his swords was a shut door. With so little between them, every moment of the delay felt like an eternity. His hands itched to grip the familiar steel, and he thought that now that Kaze had disappeared in the council chamber, it should only be a moment’s more wait, but something held her up.

It was alright. He could wait that long, he told himself as he tipped his head back and studied the arched stone ceiling for the second time. A cobweb hung in the south corner that he had missed on the first inspection. 

A muffled exclamation carried from inside the chamber that made him glance at the heavy oaken doors again, eyes trailing the silvery carving. When Kaze had slipped inside a while ago, Lancelot had barely gotten a look at people gathered around the table – all he had seen was the signature leather jerkin, the green-tinted plates of the armour, and a glimpse of flowing black robes. 

Then the door had shut behind her back, cutting off the agitated voices, and Lancelot had been left alone – well, almost. Two guards stood at the doors to the main chamber; the one to the left was a scrawny snake lad – that folk still made him uneasy with their reptile-like features. The other was a moustachioed man blood too old to be drafted. Not the finest, and definitely not enough to keep an eye on him but…

“Ashman,” Bate drawled, slowly cracking his eyes open to glare at him from under the furrowed brow. “You are even quieter than usual. Something on your mind?”

When Lancelot and Kaze had come in, Bate had already been waiting on a stone bench in front of the council chamber. In the long minutes that had passed since then, he hadn't attempted to strike a conversation, seemingly lost in thoughts—rather dark ones, judging by the faint frown that had creased his forehead. Even though he radiated the same relaxed energy like a drunk, there was little doubt in Lancelot’s mind that he would leap to his feet in a blink if need be. 

With no intent to spark more tension, Lancelot averted his gaze and shifted from one foot to another. “No.”

Unfortunately, it seemed insufficient to deter the interest that he had caught by the virtue of standing still and quiet. 

“What happened to your face? Heard a dirty joke or..?”

He paused, working his jaw for a moment before giving a terse answer: “Pym.”

Scoffing in amusement, Bate tilted his head. “How come?”

“I said the wrong thing,” Lancelot replied dryly.

Bate paused for a moment. “Never a good idea around her. She is fiery.”

“I know that now.”

Narrowing his gaze, Bate studied him for a bit longer. Seemingly satisfied with his inspection, he nodded; a hint of a smirk ticking the corner of his mouth up, but his eyes stayed cold and hard. 

Without saying another word, he let his head fall back against the wall, the curling antlers propping it up. Relieved, Lancelot leaned a bit heavier against the wall, lowered his eyes and inspected the scuffed leather of his boots.

As the minutes ticked by, the silence in the hallway was undisturbed save for the hushed din from the market square. Sunlight and sound filtered in through the arch of the town hall’s main entrance a few steps away from the council chamber. At that hour, the sun rays almost reached the toes of his boots.

The mild weather was unlikely to last for long with the fall coming upon them fast. Lured by the elusive promise of warmth, Lancelot drifted to the archway of the entrance. Before taking a step closer to the threshold, he shot a glance at his warden, but when their eyes met, Bate didn't utter a word.

The wary eyes of the hall guards also followed him like shadows, but they were easier to dismiss. Unlike some, they weren't likely to bother him unless he did something suspicious. They also didn't present any threat – again, unlike some.

Throwing a brief glance at the ravens quarrelling over a dead rat a couple paces away from the steps leading to the town hall entrance, Lancelot shifted his gaze back to the square. Pleasant warmth aside, spying from here offered him a chance to learn more about fey without being in the midst of them. 

Back during the first weeks after his reunion with the folk, it had only taken him one unfortunate clash to realise that ogling them was a bad idea, no matter how curious he was. He hadn't done more than look, but Gawain had to drag a hot-headed tusk away before he could go swinging at Lancelot. The intensity of his eyes easily angered fey and made them suspicious. Even though he tried to explain that was how he looked at everything, they didn't seem to believe him. So, he had given up and began to avert his eyes as soon as someone bristled the slightest.

But now, during a quiet moment on the outskirts of the commotion, he could peer around to his soul’s content. When the excited giggles and yells erupted to his side, his gaze followed, finding a bunch of fey children playing under the elm trees lining the square. There, under the sprawling branches adorned with flaming leaves, they were safely out of the way of adults scurrying across the square. 

The mere sight of the motley young creatures brought a faint smile to his face. Their clothes were humble and more than a bit tattered, but that didn't stop them from weaving their hair in elaborate braids or hanging tiny amulets around their necks. Colourful stones, fangs, dried flowers – any throwaway thing found its place on dyed threads.

Something innocently brave was contained in those bright, bold statements they made with their feathers, bird skulls and shamrocks. It reminded Lancelot of the flowers growing in the cracks between the cobblestones of a road. No matter how much hooves and feet stomped on them, they always uncurled again at dawn, stubbornly clinging to life.

The guarding amulets on their necks were one way to ensure the more of the little weeds would survive should rough ruddy hands try to tear them out. From what he had witnessed, the powers in them seemed to care little for Christian faith; they stung pious brothers as effortlessly as erring ones. Unfortunately, apart from an occasional spark and a scorched hand, the trinkets could do little to ward off the assailants should they be brutal enough.

One of the boys cried out, ushering others to gather into a circle, and Lancelot blinked, brought out of his thoughts. Shifting to let some tension out of his spine, he focused on the scene unfolding in front of him and not the ones replaying in his mind. As the children grabbed each other’s hands, he glanced around to make sure no one was watching him while he watched them – but all was safe, and his gaze drifted back to the group.

The little fauns wore those curious markings on their faces, even more noticeable than his, scattered spots and blotches of white. Secretly, they had always fascinated him. The spots seemed to darken with age, changing from bright white to ivory. Some fauns had myriads of dots, and some didn’t seem to have any. Not for the first time, he wondered if it meant anything, whether it was a mark of lineage.

Casting a sideways glance at Bate, who was now idly carving a piece of the bench with his dagger. The guards glared at him disapprovingly but wisely kept their mouths shut, and Lancelot refrained from asking anything either. Instead, he moved his gaze back to the children.

Together with a couple of snake boys, the little fauns were now playing a game that seemed to be a fey take on tag. Right now, they were choosing who was next to be the wolf with a nursery rhyme. 

Amused at their antics, Lancelot watched them with a faint smile. Holding hands, they skipped around a shy looking moonwing girl, who recited the verse with great care, her weak voice hitching on every other word.

When his ears made out the words, the smile slid slowly off his face— 

_ “In the ditch, hiding from the Wolf-Blood Witch...” _

—until it was replaced by a blank look of terror.

_ “Paladin, paladin, choke and twitch...”  _ they sang happily, and he dug his nails into his palm, nostrils flaring. Behind him, someone moved with a soft rustle of clothes, but he couldn't look back—most of all he knew he shouldn’t, one glimpse on his face surely would be enough to make him lose all trust he had gained. 

_ “... bitten by the Wolf-Blood Witch!” _ the children finished, making faces at each other and baring their teeth, growling in their thin voices before they dissolved into bright, ringing laughter that cut Lancelot to the bone.

He couldn’t take another breath, his foolish body convinced that it was him writhing in the mud, suffocated by the roots. A vivid memory emerged of seeing how a man choked on one of those back in the Yvoire Abbey. The harrowing visage of the vines that grew straight through his skin, the recollection of how they had tried to latch on Lancelot’s fingers as he had come closer to inspect the body made him shudder. 

The swirling, pulsing marks from the Devil’s Tooth had been so chock full of potent dark magic that it had practically wafted off the bloodied skin, rotten and vile. Lancelot could swear he felt it in the air now, too, and it made his stomach churn and coil as if he was on a ship deck in the stormy sea.

He spun around with a sharp exhale, unable to watch the game anymore. His heart hammered in his chest as he leaned heavily against the wall, clutching at the stones behind him with trembling fingers that itched and ached, unable to turn green.

“Oi, weeper,” called out the man-blood guard, his moustache bristling above fat lips as he threw him a worried glance. “You’re not going to be sick, are ya?”

Lancelot wasn’t so sure about that. He shook his head weakly anyway, and immediately regretted it, forced to swallow down the bitter taste of bile rising in his throat. 

“Seriously, Ashman,” Bate joined, raising from the bench halfway, a worried frown knitting his brows together. “You alright there?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Lancelot saw his hand raise covertly to the hilt of the sword. Closing his eyes for a brief moment, he gave him a small nod, throat working in small jerks around the sour taste of nausea.

It was just a nursery rhyme, he reminded himself, struggling to get a grip on his spiralling mind. Under the smothering weight of their suspicious and worried looks, he forced himself to straighten and fight the unease down. 

The rolling nausea retreated for a moment, even though he felt it lurk still, ready to wring his insides again the moment he moved too sharply. However, the whispers in his mind, the ones he usually kept locked behind the iron bars, were only growing louder, reaching out like starved prisoners gone mad. They muttered something about oaks, and ravens, and so much blood.

If they as much as grazed him…

The door of the council hall swung open with a loud thud, drawing Lancelot out of his daze so abruptly he choked briefly on an inhale. He blinked rapidly, trying to figure out what was going on – and saw Gawain appear in the archway with an unsheathed sword in his hands.

With a jolt of fear piercing through his chest, Lancelot promptly stumbled away, pressing closer against the wall. His heart hammered in his chest, but after the initial shock, he realised that the knight wasn’t advancing. With his face set in a stern expression, Gawain was radiating frustration, sage scent rolling off of him in waves. The scent of rot mingled with it and Lancelot winced, drawing back slightly.

At that moment, hard green eyes met his own and lingered for one long, agonising heartbeat before Gawain turned away to face Bate, who had stood up to join them. Fraught silence ensued as they stared each other down, Gawain’s frown deepening while the other council members exchanged incredulous looks behind his back. With his broad frame blocking the entrance, Lancelot could only see three of them, Arthur and two tribe chiefs.

After waiting for a bit longer, Gawain broke the silence.

“What are you doing here?” he asked in a clipped voice. “Anything you’ve forgotten to say yesterday?”

Frowning, Lancelot glanced at Bate–so, whatever went down between the two was the reason for his sour mood. He had never seen the two men so strained with each other.

Not backing down an inch, Bate shrugged with nonchalant air and crossed his arms.

“Just because you act like a bloody arse doesn’t mean I am not going to be here for whatever foolhardy thing you intend to commit.”

For a short moment, Gawain glared back, his narrowed eyes flashing angrily, the barely perceptible scent of vervain and henbane emanating from him. Silence became almost painfully tense—and then he barked out a short laugh, and drew the man into an embrace, clasping the back of his head. 

When he muttered something inaudible in his ear, Bate scoffed and shook his head, but the stiff line of his shoulders mellowed out in an instant. Cracking him a wry smile, Gawain let go and, without looking back, marched out of the town hall.

When Lancelot shot Kaze – who followed right after – a questioning glance, she gave him a quick nod, slightly lifting the elongated bundle in her hands. But as soon as he took a step closer, she shook her head, making him freeze again with a confused frown. 

“Wait a bit,” she threw over her shoulder, strutting past him before running down the steps to catch up with Gawain. The others followed suit, half a dozen ruffled people marching out of the council room in a flurry of worried, agitated mutterings. To Lancelot’s silent surprise, Bate chose to linger behind, standing next to him in the archway. With his arms folded on his chest, he widened his stance and studied the scene unfolding in front of them.

Averting his eyes, Lancelot took a steadying breath and, with some effort, unclenched his jaw before following his example.

The elders all wore worried scowls that they tried in vain to hide, but even the most impassive ones were betrayed by small ticks – a twitching tail here, too wide pupils there. Everyone seemed probably the most agitated since he had seen them through the delirious haze when Gawain had brought him in. 

Gesticulating wildly, Red Spear was debating something with Arthur, who was flanked by a dark-skinned woman in that black robe Lancelot had caught a glimpse of. Even though she seemed familiar to him, he couldn’t quite place her. When their gazes crossed, she flinched with disgust. Her dark eyes flashed with fury, but she didn't utter a word as she clenched her jaw and turned back to her companion, a bald man, who stood by her side with a wry smile, leaning on his staff of pale wood.

What an odd company it was – and why was Gawain drawing a weapon in the middle of the town? Glancing between them, Lancelot frowned, unsure of what the threat was. Then his eyes flitted to the man’s sword belt. His frown deepened as he saw it wasn’t Gawain’s own sword he was carrying. 

A vague suspicion that tugged at his mind solidified into a horrible realisation. The whispers grew louder, clawing at his mind, and Lancelot stumbled back, trying to put some distance between himself and—and that thing.

It was the Devil’s Tooth.

His breath caught in his throat on every inhale, and every exhale came out too shallow. There was something familiar in its scent that he had felt the other day. Forcing nausea down, Lancelot glanced back at that bizarre bald man, who was still chatting under his breath with the black-clad woman. As if sensing his stare, he looked up and grinned at him, startlingly bright blue eyes crinkling at the corners.

… oh, hell, he was  _ an idiot. _

In the entire kingdom, there was only one man who could have brought the Sword to Fey – but he just had never thought that Merlin the Magician would look like that. The loose way the man dressed and his relatively youthful appearance had taken Lancelot aback. From the stories, he had always imagined the magician to be more… respectable; old – like Father was.

At least it explained how he had vanished in thin air the other day, but not why he had come in the first place. Frowning, Lancelot held his gaze even though it felt like he was being twisted and crushed by a raging tempest, silent as it was. 

Luckily the man glanced away when Gawain whistled loudly. Lancelot looked away immediately, trying his damndest to appear unfazed. The summon wasn’t directed at him though but at the children. They came at the knight’s calling so eagerly that they were all but falling over themselves in their rush. 

They did pause before approaching to throw a couple of wary glances in Merlin’s direction. Without saying a word, he just tilted his head with a small smile. Their staredown was broken off quickly, though, as Gawain addressed the children. 

“Lads, have a task for you,” he said with a confidential tone that immediately had the young fey perk up and focus on him, ignoring the other adults for the time being. “Go to healers and blacksmiths and ask them to come here – make sure everyone you see on the way comes as well. I want every fey in the camp here.”

Bobbing their heads, the children ran off, already shouting out for the others on their way. Only the little moonwing girl stayed behind. 

When Lancelot saw the reason, his spine stiffened and his frown grew even deeper – it seemed that he wasn’t the only one whose attention was drawn to the magician. Throwing her head back, the girl looked the man up and down with a faint frown of disapproval that she unexpectedly managed to pull off despite their startling difference in height. 

“Are you truly Merlin?” she inquired suspiciously, and when the man nodded, pursed her lips. “Aunt Yeva says you’re a bastard and a fool,” she said solemnly, tilting her head, soft white feathers ruffling around her neck like a collar. That definitely explained where she had learned the mannerisms – Lancelot had only seen the woman once or twice, but that was more than enough. “She is very wise. But she doesn’t want to talk to you, so I thought I will tell you, instead.”

Next to him, Bate scoffed in amusement, but Lancelot’s blood ran cold. Unable to fight down the impulse, he stepped forward, imagining what a reaction one of the most powerful and dangerous men in the kingdom would have to such insolence. However, when no one else moved, he paused, nearly trembling with the effort to keep still.

“Why, that is harsh,” Merlin muttered with a chuckle, his bright eyes focused on the tiny figure that barely reached above his waist. “But believe me, I am well aware.”

Rolling his eyes, the woman next to him scoffed, and that seemed to be it. Breathing out in relief, Lancelot glanced at Gawain; a small, tense smile played on his lips that only made it more pronounced how hard and cold his eyes were right now. If usually the green was sparkling and shifting like foliage in the wind, now it turned into hard jade.

“So,” Merlin started, leaning a bit heavier on his staff as he stared at the girl with the same intrigued look on his face. “Your aunt…”

“Maille,” Gawain interrupted him, not even bothering to meet the magician’s gaze as he crouched in front of the girl and reached out a hand. Immediately, her solemn silvery eyes shifted to his face. “Thank you for passing Yeva’s words – but I still need you to go bring her here as well. Can you do it?”

The girl nodded seriously, briefly squeezing his hand. Her cheeks flushed when Gawain grinned at her, then she turned around and took off. Lancelot threw a glance after her as she weaved through the slowly gathering crowd before his eyes returned to Gawain.

The knight had already resumed his conversation with Arthur. The black-clad woman next to him also remarked on something, but too quiet for him to hear. They were all talking in hushed voices, Lancelot noticed with a faint frown, even lower than they would need to, usually.

Next to him, Bate shifted, a faint frown crossing his brow. When their eyes met, the man’s expression smoothed out again into an impassive mask.

Shaking his head, Lancelot squeezed his eyes, fighting off the intrusive thoughts and the nausea they brought once he deciphered the words. God, he had seen his fair share of violence, but this… This was beyond what he could have imagined himself, or so he dared to hope.

Clashing in the struggle with the darkness clouding his mind was exhausting, Lancelot found himself taking a step back, pressing into the wall. The itch in his fingers when they brushed against the wall was growing stronger, but before he could see why, Gawain threw a glance his way and, with a curt apology to others, strode over to him.

Lancelot froze like a skittish cat about to be shaken by its scruff by a dog. When the knight approached, the wariness was quickly drowned out by the headache. It felt as if there were ghosts imprisoned in his head, pounding on the iron bars, every blow echoing in a pulse of a headache, every rattle filling his head with cacophony – that only grew with every step Gawain took in his direction.

“Still here? Good,” he smiled, but it was a tense grimace that didn’t soothe Lancelot as it usually did. “All good at the healers?”

He mutely gave a short, barely-there nod to spare himself any more pain, and clenched his teeth.

“Are you alright?” Gawain frowned, reaching out for him, but Lancelot shifted imperceptibly back.

“Yes,” he breathed out, words twisting and slithering in his mouth like a knot of snakes, “just a headache.”

Gawain looked him up and down, his frown deepening. “Have you asked Pym for the potion?”

“No,” Lancelot replied, again, stomping fervently on the vision that kept being shoved into his vision by the ghosts, blood, so much blood. “I forgot.”

For a brief moment, Gawain didn’t reply, and he squirmed from both the internal onslaught of vivid, violent, sickening images and the external intent focus of the sharp green eyes. It was growing to be too much – even for him – used as he was to hide in plain sight, but then Gawain nodded curtly.

“Are you good enough to stand?” he asked softly.

“Yes.”

“Sure? Alright. You don’t have to wait for much longer,” he looked at the growing gathering, dozens and dozens of fey, and raiders; town dwellers, too, even though they had chosen to stay on the outside of the square. “Here should be fine, the crowd won’t bother you."

Kaze approached them in a couple of wide strides and stopped nearby, planting her feet a bit steadier before moving her heavy gaze to Lancelot.

“I think most of the folk are here,” she said softly, and Gawain nodded. 

“Well,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Time to break the news then.”

Merciful be God, he would never think it would bring him such relief to see Gawain go, as the man strode over to the platform used by the town criers, leaping up on it effortlessly. Straightening, he glanced over his people and grinned sharply.

“Fair folk!” he called out, his cheerful voice carrying easily over the square. “It’s a bright day today, isn’t it?” 

A wave rippled through the crowd as they nodded in agreement, exchanging guesses of what it led to in hushed excited murmurs.

“Well, it is going to be even brighter,” Gawain paused, and then lifted the sword in his hand high. “Because today, the Sword of Power is back in our hands!”

Immediately, the fey erupted into loud cheers, and many pressed their hands to their chests and mouths in excited relief. However, Lancelot barely noticed them anymore, the din of the crowd drowned out by the ringing in his ears as his eyes riveted to the sword.

Gawain spoke the truth. The Devil’s Tooth was right there – within his reach. It felt as if it called to him, the pull of it was akin to watching the dark water of a whirlpool, entrancing but eerie. Only when the fey fell silent and Gawain spoke again did Lancelot remember about the world around him.

“Yes, brothers and sisters,” Gawain said, “it is with us – but we will have to lend it to Merlin the Magician—” he barely gave them a moment to process; Lancelot just distantly heard a worried, angry cry or two, and then the knight finished, “—so that with its help he can find our Queen.”

The surprised exclamations followed, and Gawain raised his hand, demanding silence. 

“I would never give you false hope by relying on his word only. But you all know Morgana well and know we can trust her,” he nodded slightly to the side, and the black-clad woman behind him shifted, taking a step forward. “Many of you were saved by her at great risk to her life. Back then, she was a prisoner herself in the hands of the Church. But much has changed, for many of us,” he paused, glancing at Lancelot, then turned to the woman, who met his eyes steadily, even though a frown knitted her eyebrows together. 

“Shadow Lady of the Dying,” Gawain said, each word ringing clearly in the air over the heads of Fey, “tell us what you know.”

A gasp went up from the throngs. The exclamations this time were louder – surprised, almost fearful; the woman – oh God, he remembered her now – the woman from Yvoire Abbey – slowly scanned the crowd. Her eyes stopped at him, and he saw her features harden. 

“Gawain is right, much has changed, and… I did, too. You, fey, all know what my title means,” she uttered. “I know who is about to die, since I am the one to guide their souls,” Morgana paused, and Lancelot saw Arthur covertly reach out for her shoulder before Red Spear halted his hand. 

It only took the young woman a moment to collect herself, just a quick brush down the black robes she was wearing. Jutting her chin up, she began speaking again. 

“Which is how I know that Nimue is not dead,” she waited until the relieved hum of the crowd subdued before continuing. “We were there with Merlin when she was treacherously attacked by the Church. Despite their best efforts, Nimue survived. But she is trapped by magical forces, powerful and sinister – which is why Merlin is here. We are going to join our efforts to rescue her.”

The wave of loud murmurs rolled over the square, and Morgana blinked, glancing around. She looked as if simply speaking of those events took the soul out of her. 

Giving her a grateful nod and briefly putting a hand on her elbow, a fleeting gesture that could only be seen from the right angle, Gawain took over. Once again, he turned to the crowd, his face set in a determined expression. 

“I understand your concerns. But I ask you to trust me. If there is anyone who was deceived by me, say it now,” he demanded. “Do not fear to speak up – you are fey, and fey do not cower before anyone.”

Lancelot swallowed, a vague suspicion that the words were an accusation directed at him, even though Gawain’s gaze rested on other fey. It felt as if the air was thick with tension, as if the crowd was a lute string, pulled so tight it was going to snap at any moment.

Suddenly, a shout came from the crowd, and Lancelot recognized the voice.

“Does cheating at dice count?” Thaid hollered with a cheeky grin, standing on his tiptoes.

The tension broke like ice on the river as the fey guffawed with laughter, brittle at first and then more heartfelt when the older tusk next to Thaid whacked him upside the head. Struck by such public display of impudence, Lancelot looked back to the platform – but Gawain broke into a grin as well, shaking his head. He waited until the snickering died down before he stepped forward, raising the sword once again to hold it flat in his hands, as if delivering it to fey like a gift. 

Now, the crowd awaited the knight’s words in breathless silence.

“By heart you are masters of peaceful trades. But every single one of you is a brave fighter. Every single one of you has the will and courage we need to win. And now that we have swords for all, my warriors and I will make sure you have the skill, too,” he smiled wryly, a feral edge to it that fey mirrored with sharp grins. 

When Lancelot threw a glance at the rest of the crowd, he couldn't help but note the difference in the mood. The raiders looked apprehensive, striking their beards or tugging at their braids in deep thought, and the town dwellers peered at the scene with fearful curiosity one would show to a dangerous wild animal that ventured close to your home. 

But the fey – fey looked as if they saw the sun for the first time after a long winter.

“The sword I hold belongs to the First Queen, who gave you an oath,” the crowd hushed at once, looking up at Gawain with tentative hope. Distantly, Lancelot wondered if those words had already been spoken before in front of them – it certainly looked like that, and the shadows of Nemos resurfaced briefly. “An oath I give you as well.”

“Bastard,” the familiar taunting voice, which now sounded full of awed pride, breathed out. When Lancelot glanced to the side, he saw Bate watch Gawain with his gaze slightly narrowed, an incredulous smile curling the corner of his lips up.  “Can’t believe he is doing this…”

Glancing back, he tried to understand what the faun saw that he didn’t. It did seem like Gawain was gearing up for something, a short pause filled with silence so tense it was ringing. His expression softened as he looked over the fey, just a flicker, and then his eyes turned into the blazing green fire that sent a shiver down Lancelot’s spine even before Gawain spoke again. 

“I will be your shield. And by the gods, I will be your sword,” he raised his voice, his words ringing loud and firm over the square. “I will be everything you need me to be until we bring Nimue back. And when we do, no one – not the Church, not King Uther, not the Ice King –  _ no one _ – would stop us from reaching our new home.” 

When the knight lowered the sword, Lancelot could see his knuckles stand out white from how tightly he gripped it. Gawain looked for all the world as if he was ready to fight off anyone, heaven and hell, right there on the steps of the town hall they occupied.

He could  _ see  _ the words resonate through the crowd like the ripples on the water after someone threw a stone in. But where the water surface would have smoothed into the same flat mirror as it had been before, the crowd seemed to only grow more agitated, the excitement accelerating and growing like a snowball. 

And then, Cora raised her fist.

“The Green King!” she cried out.

There was barely time to draw a breath in for Lancelot before the others picked it up, and in a blink, the entire square chanted like one...

“The Green King! The Green King! The Green King!”

… the entire square, but him.

It was as if the spell sealed his lips. His tongue wouldn’t lift to speak the words, even if Lancelot knew his life probably depended on it. To deny it so brazenly, to practically issue a challenge to their king in front of all the fey of Britain… It was unthinkable. It was, most importantly, foolish.

And he did it anyway.

Lancelot could feel the heavy, damning weight of Kaze’s gaze as she glanced at him, lowering her fist. The crowd was calming down but, working in counteract, his heart was picking up the speed until it hammered so hard in his chest that he was sure it would beat right through the ribs.

“Not going to say it?” she inquired, and her tone wasn’t as cold as he expected. It was more apprehensive than anything else, and at least a share of the weight that bent him down lifted off Lancelot’s shoulders.

“I’ll let my actions speak,” he replied quietly, and it seemed to appease Kaze enough as she nodded and relaxed her stance that had begun to border on the one she adopted during the fight. 

For a short moment, she studied him, her face impassive, and then when Gawain gestured from the platform, she lowered her crossed arms. “Come.”

His heart stopped – lurched – before it began a faltering, rapid beat again. “Where are you taking me?” Lancelot asked numbly while his feet already moved of their own accord to follow Kaze who led him to the platform. 

As they made their way through the crowd, people parted before Kaze, but everyone turned to follow him with their eyes, an oppressive weight of it akin to a gathering thundercloud. It felt as if he was dragged forward by an invisible force, iron pulled to lodestone again. 

Perhaps, he thought wildly, that was how fate felt.

“To give you back your swords,” Kaze replied in a low voice as they walked, and then muttered, even quieter, without looking at him. “Whatever Gawain says, do not look surprised. And remember – swear by the sacred oak, ash and elder.”

Befuddled, he tried to ask her what she meant, but next thing he knew, he was ushered up the platform to stand in front of Gawain. Their eyes met, and the knight held his gaze unwaveringly as Kaze handed him the bundle with one hand, fingers wrapped tightly around the swords concealed by the fabric.

“You might want to kneel,” Gawain said to him under his breath, reaching out to take them.

Light-headed with his throat too seized to allow air in, Lancelot obeyed. Everything had happened so quickly, he barely had time to realise that what he thought would have been a small affair was turning out to be something far more grave. 

The crowd murmured, their eyes riveted to him and the knight. He couldn’t even make out the fragments of words he caught, blood rushing in his ears, mingling with soft whispers of the dark. 

Then, pulling the scabbard out of the bundle, Gawain extended it to him, holding it with both hands. 

With a quick glance up, Lancelot frowned, unsure of what to do. His fingers twitched, eager to reach out but he hesitated. Thankfully, Gawain began to speak and the hint of amusement that lit his eyes disappeared, his face growing solemn.

“Lancelot of Ashfolk, son of Arawn,” he said. “Seems today we both give our oaths to Fey Folk. I gave mine. Are you ready to give yours?”

Startled, Lancelot barely managed to heed the advice he had been given and keep his face blank. Acutely aware of having everyone’s eyes on him, he forced his hands to be still where they ached to ball into tight fists.

“I am,” he rasped, his throat dry and his heart racing as if he was fleeing the chase, even though he was rooted to the spot. 

With the slightest tilt of his head, Gawain urged him to look him straight in the eye. For a fleeting moment, a smile ticked the corner of his lips, but something proud and severe was in it that lent him no warmth.

“By the sacred oak, do you swear your allegiance to the Fair Folk?” Gawain began. “By the sacred ash, do you swear to faith with us against all creatures, living or dead? By the sacred elder, do you swear to defend us faithfully and never cause us harm?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Lancelot saw Kaze shift, a barely noticeable movement. The words she had said finally made sense. Slowly, he inclined his head.

“By the sacred oak, ash and elder,” he uttered. “I swear.”

The green leather creaked faintly when Gawain moved, then the whisper of steel followed as the blade was drawn out of its sheath. The instinct kicking in, Lancelot looked up, and at once their gazes crossed. 

There was something so wild, barely restrained in Gawain’s face, that he nearly crumbled under the intensity of his stare. The wry smile was back, but the green eyes were ablaze with conviction as the knight spoke. 

“Are you willing to become completely my man for now and for as long as you live?”

Mouth going dry, Lancelot searched his face for a moment. The crowd was deadly silent; not a rustle, not a whisper to interrupt the quiet. It felt like standing in the eye of the storm, the sharp gaze on him pulling him closer. It took him apart, left him feeling stripped of his shields, seen through and known. If before he had thought of watching the dark waters, then now they were closing above his head. And it appeared he had to welcome them to survive, letting the cold fill his lungs. 

“I am willing,” he said. Every word was a stab to his chest, but no matter how they terrified him, he couldn't deny their honesty. He could almost sense the shift in the air, a tangible difference, the scent of rot and thunder growing stronger. It radiated from the knight in stuttering pulses, from the Devil’s Tooth still hanging from his sword belt. 

“As the sea to the river, as the tree to the seed, as the mountain to the stone, so do I now recognise you to me. From this day forward, you are of my blood and of my hold. Be it known to all men, present and future,” averting his eyes for a moment, Gawain looked at the crowd, his gaze lingering on them before returning, “that Lancelot of Ashfolk, since he offered to the Fair Folk his unbroken fidelity, shall be protected by our aid. And if anyone should presume to kill him, I, Sir Gawain of Orkney, will avenge his death. Be it so.”

The echo of the words still ringing in the silence that fell, he placed the pommel of the sword into Lancelot’s hand, who wrapped his fingers tightly around it. He did it simply out of habit, too numb and overwhelmed to truly feel anything but the lurch in his stomach, as he stared at the hilt. The engraved cross was no longer there, either simply covered by the leather straps or erased completely. 

He would see soon enough which one it was.

Swallowing thickly, Lancelot lifted his chin and met Gawain’s eyes. They were no longer the raging fey fire of before, as the warm amusement twinkled again in the verdant green. 

Leaning down, the knight clasped his forearm and helped him up, drawing him into a firm, short embrace. The ends of his hair, gilded by the afternoon sun, brushed over his neck.

“Well done,” he muttered warmly in his ear before pulling back.

Encouraged by it, Lancelot turned his gaze to the crowd. Many of them were far from happy, but mostly, they were just wary, just a few outright scowls. His eyes caught familiar faces: Polly seemed vaguely amused while Bate wore a stoic look, only a slight furrow of the brow betraying him.

When Gawain jumped down from the platform, the crowd took a cue and began to dissipate. Mingling with raiders on their way to the training grounds, blacksmiths and dwellings, fey trickled out of the square in murmuring streams, more light in their faces and more spring in their gate than how they had come there.

Lifting the swords slightly, Lancelot inclined his head and quietly said, “I am grateful beyond what I can say. Thank you for giving them back.”

Gawain gave him a curt nod and the corners of his lips twitched in a small smile. “It was high time.”

The knight was true to his words, and he could think of only one way to express his gratitude. Hesitantly, Lancelot lowered the scabbards. “I need to regain my skills – it’s been a long time since I’ve trained.”

At that, there was a glint in the green eyes, and he just opened his mouth, a thrill of anticipation shooting through Lancelot’s stomach – but before Gawain could say anything, the elders approached them with thunderous looks on their faces. Behind their backs, Failbe and Thaid appeared with a scowling Percival in front. There was a boy at his side, a young, fragile faun with an absent look on his face as if he was bored by the events unfolding before him. 

Taking a deep inhale and slowly exhaling through his nose, he made sure to unclench the fingers on the swords slowly enough not to attract attention to the fact he had grabbed the weapons in the first place. The knight’s sharp eyes still flickered to his hands – and Lancelot almost blushed under his unimpressed stare.

Crossing her arms, Cora cleared her throat, arching a brow and tilting her head slightly, pointing the sharp tips of her antlers forward in a vaguely threatening gesture.

“I think we need to talk,” she remarked in a meaningful tone, glancing between them. 

Giving them a nod, Gawain gestured for him to follow – and Lancelot remembered abruptly that he was still supposed to be under watch, probably even closer now that he was armed. As he trailed after the council members, the fragments of their conversation reached his ears over the din of the crowd.

“Why did you not tell us about any of this?” the moonwing seethed, his pale eyes narrowed and feathers standing upright, making him appear larger than he was.

“Because I am telling you now,” Gawain replied calmly, keeping his voice low. “You knew about everything but my oath to Lancelot. And that one is between me and him.”

A perplexed frown crossed the man’s brow, and his eyes darted to Lancelot before returning to the knight. “You took him into your house, Gawain. Why?”

“Because he needs one.”

He said it in such a calm, matter-of-fact voice as if simply stating the obvious, that Lancelot didn't immediately understand the words, and when he did, he missed a step. The twins, who were obviously listening in as well as they trotted next to him, exchanged excited glances.

“That was so wicked,” Thaid breathed out in a loud whisper, his voice brimming over with excitement. “I’ve never heard a vow like that!”

“You’ve never heard any vows,” Percival corrected grimly, then turned to Lancelot, a frown on his face. “That doesn’t mean you are a knight, you know, right?”

“I know,” he confirmed under his voice, bowing his head. “You do not have to worry. I am not claiming any titles.”

“Just the best warrior one,” the boy scowled fiercely, then huffed. “I bet Gawain can beat you.”

“Perhaps,” Lancelot replied mildly. He wasn’t going to point out that the evidence seemed to suggest otherwise – because he had won mostly by taking the knight by surprise. He hardly had many aces left up his sleeves now to repeat that trick.

Chewing on his lip, Percival threw him a sideways glance. “I am sure he can. You should fight, and then we will see.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Are you afraid?”

His eyes flickered to Gawain’s back as he pondered how to explain to the boy just how wrong such a fight can go. The knight was still locked in an argument with the elders, though it looked as if he was mostly listening and giving short, reluctant replies. Judging by the way he bowed his head, the council had little chance of hearing him go back on his promise, and it made his throat close.

“But at least now you will teach us, right?” Failbe chimed in a sudden blur of words, a hopeful note raising his voice.

Giving him a curt nod, Lancelot noticed absently how the silent faun boy perked up, his eyes snapping into focus and flickering up to meet his own. For a moment, they looked at each other, but then Kaze tapped him at the shoulder, forcing him to look away.

“I hope you appreciated the flair and all,” she deadpanned, and then her eyes hardened. “But did you mean what you said?”

“I did,” Lancelot said quietly, as the uneasy roiling feeling in his stomach returned with the same viciousness, gnawing at his inside and twisting them in knots. “I meant it.”

For a long moment, she studied him, her shrewd eyes pinning him like a cat would a mouse. Then before giving him a firm nod.

“Good. Wouldn’t want to disappoint the Green… King,” she smirked.

“Stop it,” Gawain cut in with a wince, turning to them. The elders gave them short nods, before veering to the side. “I didn’t ask for that.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Kaze muttered under her breath. “I suppose things just happen to you these days, don’t they?”

For a long moment, Gawain was silent. He didn’t meet their eyes, staring instead at Merlin, who was still standing on the platform, watching the ravens jumping over the cobblestones of the square. When he spoke again, it was barely audible.

“I do what needs to be done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gawain:  
> 
> 
> Oak, ash & elder are all Celtic sacred trees. Arawn is a Celtic deity, the king of the underworld -- we took the liberty of assuming that when a father's name is unknown, Fey use the patron god of the trade that the person practices (in this case, since Arawn is already mentioned in the knight's vow from the series, we just assigned him as a patron of all warriors). The "I am willing" part of the oath is based on the ceremony of homage from the 12th century Flanders ([source](http://www.faculty.umb.edu/gary_zabel/Courses/Phil%20281b/Philosophy%20of%20Magic/Dante.%20etc/Philosophers/End/bluedot/homage.html)). Dudes were so gay <3 (:

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be a long story. ;) As of right now, we have forty chapters written that are awaiting some editing and beta-reading. Come and yell on our tumblrs for us to edit faster. :) We also hang out on the Lancewain Discord server!
> 
> valerin berenghar | kay abiter


End file.
